E,    E,    PDTNflM 


\ 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE 


WHEN    A    MAN'S    SINGLE 


A  TALE  OF  LITERARY  LIFE 


BY 

J.    M.    BARRIE 

AUTHOR  OF 
'THE  LITTLE  MINISTER,"  "AULD  LIGHT  IDYLLS,"  "  MY  LADY  NICOTINE,' 

"A  WINDOW   IN   THRUMS,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

LOVELL,  CORYELL  &  COMPANY 

43,  45  AND  47  EAST  TENTH  STREET 


W.  ROBERTSON  NICOLL,  M.A. 


20016SO 


WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ROB  ANGUS   IS  NOT   A  FREE  MAN. 

ONE  still  Saturday  afternoon  some  years  ago  a  child 
pulled  herself  through  a  small  window  into  a  kitchen 
in  the  kirk-wynd  of  Thrums.  She  came  from  the 
old  graveyard,  whose  only  outlet,  when  the  parish 
church  gate  is  locked,  is  the  windows  of  the  wynd 
houses  that  hoop  it  round.  Squatting  on  a  three- 
legged  stool  she  gazed  wistfully  at  a  letter  on  the 
chimney-piece,  and  then,  tripping  to  the  door,  looked 
up  and  down  the  wynd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  the  bellman*  hobbled  past,  and, 
though  Davy  was  only  four  years  old,  she  knew  that 
as  he  had  put  on  his  blue  top-coat  he  expected  the 
evening  to  be  fine.  Tammas  McQuhatty,  the  farmer 
of  T'nowhead,  met  him  at  the  corner,  and  they  came 
to  a  standstill  to  say,  "  She's  nard.  Sneck,"  and  "  She 
is  so,  T'nowhead,"  referring  to  the  weather.  Ob- 
serving that  they  had  stopped  they  moved  on  again. 

Women  and  children  and  a  few  men   squeezed 


8  WHEN  A    MAN'S   SINGLE. 

through  their  windows  into  the  kirk-yard,  the  women 
to  knit  stockings  on  fallen  tombstones,  and  the  men  to 
dander  pleasantly  from  grave  to  grave  reading  the 
inscriptions.  All  the  men  were  well  up  in  years,  for 
though,  with  the  Auld  Lichts,  the  Sabbath  began  to 
come  on  at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening,  the 
young  men  were  now  washing  themselves  cautiously 
in  tin  basins  before  going  into  the  square  to  talk 
about  women. 

The  clatter  of  more  than  one  loom  could  still  have 
been  heard  by  Davy  had  not  her  ears  been  too  accus- 
tomed to  the  sound  to  notice  it.  In  the  adjoining  house 
Bell  Mealmaker  was  peppering  her  newly  washed 
floor  with  sand,  while  her  lodger,  Hender  Robb,  with 
a  rusty  razor  in  his  hand,  looked  for  his  chin  in  a  tiny 
glass  that  was  peeling  on  the  wall.  Jinny  Tosh  had 
got  her  husband,  Aundra  Lunan,  who  always  spoke 
of  her  as  She,  ready,  so  to  speak,  for  church  eighteen 
hours  too  soon,  and  Aundra  sat  stiffly  at  the  fire, 
putting  his  feet  on  the  ribs  every  minute,  to  draw 
them  back  with  a  scared  look  at  Her  as  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  on  his  blacks.  In  a  bandbox  be- 
neath the  bed  was  his  silk  hat,  which  had  been 
knocked  down  to  him  at  Jamie  Ramsay's  roup,  and 
Jinny  had  already  put  his  red  handkerchief,  which 
was  also  a  pictorial  history  of  Scotland,  into  a  pocket 
of  his  coat-tails,  with  a  corner  hanging  gracefully 
out.  Her  puckered  lips  signified  that,  however 
much  her  man  might  desire  to  do  so,  he  was  not  to 


ROB   ANGUS    IS   NOT  A    FREE   MAN.  9 

carry  his  handkerchief  to  church  in  his  hat,  where 
no  one  could  see  it.  On  working-days  Aundra  held 
his  own,  but  at  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  nights  he 
passed  into  Her  hands. 

Across  the  wynd,  in  which  a  few  hens  wandered, 
Pete  Todd  was  supping  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  His 
blacks  lay  ready  for  him  in  the  coffin-bed,  and  Pete, 
glancing  at  them  at  intervals,  supped  as  slowly  as 
he  could.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  saucer,  and  in  the 
other  a  chunk  of  bread,  and  they  were  as  far  apart 
as  Pete's  outstretched  arms  could  put  them.  His 
chair  was  a  yard  from  the  table,  on  which,  by  care- 
ful balancing,  he  rested  a  shoeless  foot,  and  his  face 
was  twisted  to  the  side.  Every  time  Easie  Wha- 
mond,  his  wife,  passed  him  she  took  the  saucer  from 
his  hand,  remarking  that  when  a  genteel  man  sat 
down  to  tea  he  did  not  turn  his  back  on  the  table. 
Pete  took  this  stolidly,  like  one  who  had  long  given 
up  trying  to  understand  the  tantrums  of  women,  and 
who  felt  that,  as  a  lord  of  creation,  he  could  afford 
to  let  it  pass. 

Davy  sat  on  her  three-legged  stool  keeping  guard 
over  her  Uncle  Rob  the  saw-miller's  letter,  and  long- 
ing for  him  to  come.  She  screwed  up  her  eyebrows 
as  she  had  seen  him  do  when  he  read  a  letter,  and 
she  felt  that  it  would  be  nice  if  every  one  would  come 
and  look  at  her  taking  care  of  it.  After  a  time  she 
climbed  up  on  her  stool  and  stretched  her  dimpled 
arms  toward  the  mantelpiece.  From  a  string  sus- 


10  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

pended  across  this,  socks  and  stockings  hung  drying 
at  the  fire,  and  clutching  one  of  them  Davy  drew 
herself  nearer.  With  a  chuckle,  quickly  suppressed, 
lest  it  should  bring  in  Kitty  Wilkie,  who  ought  to 
have  been  watching  her  instead  of  wandering  down 
the  wynd  to  see  who  was  to  have  salt  fish  for  supper, 
the  child  clutched  the  letter  triumphantly,  and,  tod- 
dling to  the  door,  slipped  out  of  the  house. 

For  a  moment  Davy  faltered  at  the  mouth  of  the 
wynd.  There  was  no  one  there  to  whom  she  could 
show  the  letter.  A  bright  thought  entered  her  head, 
and  immediately  a  dimple  opened  on  her  face  and 
swallowed  all  the  puckers.  Rob  had  gone  to  the 
Whunny  muir  for  wood,  and  she  would  take  the  letter 
to  him.  Then  when  Rob  saw  her  he  would  look  all 
around  him,  and  if  there  was  no  one  there  to  take 
note  he  would  lift  her  to  his  shoulder,  when  they 
could  read  tiie  letter  together. 

Davy  ran  out  of  the  wynd  into  the  square,  thinking 
she  heard  Kitty's  Sabbath  voice,  which  reminded 
the  child  of  the  little  squeaking  saw  that  Rob  used 
for  soft  wood.  On  week-days  Kitty's  voice  was  the 
big  saw  that  pulled  and  rasped,  and  Mag  Wilkie 
shivered  at  it.  Except  to  her  husband  Mag  spoke 
with  her  teeth  closed,  so  politely  that  no  one  knew 
what  she  said. 

Davy  stumbled  up  the  steep  brae  down  which  men 
are  blown  in  winter  to  their  work,  until  she  reached 
the  rim  of  the  hollow  in  which  Thrums  lies.  Here 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT   A    FREE   MAN.  11 

the  road  stops  short,  as  if  frightened  to  cross  the  com- 
mon of  whin  that  bars  the  way  to  the  north.  On  this 
common  there  are  many  cart-tracks  over  bumpy 
sward  and  slippery  roots,  that  might  be  the  ribs  of 
the  earth  showing,  and  Davy,  with  a  dazed  look  in 
her  eyes,  ran  down  one  of  them,  the  whins  catching 
her  frock  to  stop  her,  and  then  letting  go,  as  if,  after 
all,  one  child  more  or  less  in  the  world  was  nothing 
to  them. 

By  and  by  she  found  herself  on  another  road,  along 
which  Rob  had  trudged  earlier  in  the  day  with  a  saw 
on  his  shoulder,  but  he  had  gone  east,  and  the  child's 
face  was  turned  westward.  It  is  a  muddy  road  even 
in  summer,  and  those  who  use  it  frequently  get  into 
the  habit  of  lifting  their  legs  high  as  they  walk,  like 
men  picking  their  way  through  beds  of  rotting 
leaves.  The  light  had  faded  from  her  baby  face 
now,  but  her  mouth  was  firm-set,  and  her  bewildered 
eyes  were  fixed  straight  ahead. 

The  last  person  to  see  Davy  was  Tammas  Haggart, 
who,  with  his  waistcoat  buttoned  over  his  jacket, 
and  garters  of  yarn  round  his  trousers,  was  slowly 
breaking  stones,  though  the  road  swallowed  them 
quicker  than  he  could  feed  it.  Tammas  heard  the 
child  approaching,  for  his  hearing  had  become  very 
acute,  owing  to  his  practice  when  at  home  of  listen- 
ing through  the  floor  to  what  the  folks  below  were 
saying,  and  of  sometimes  joining  in.  He  leaned  on 
his  hammer  and  watched  her  trot  past. 


12  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

The  strength  went  gradually  from  Tammas'  old 
arms,  and  again  resting  on  his  hammer  he  removed 
his  spectacles  and  wiped  them  on  his  waistcoat.  He 
took  a  comprehensive  glance  around  at  the  fields,  as 
if  he  now  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  them  for  the 
first  time  during  his  sixty  years'  pilgrimage  in  these 
parts,  and  his  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  from  the  som- 
bre firs  and  laughing  beeches  to  the  white  farms  that 
dot  the  strath.  In  the  foreground  two  lazy  colts  sur- 
veyed him  critically  across  a  dyke.  To  the  north  the 
frowning  Whunny  hill  had  a  white  scarf  round  its 
neck. 

Something  troubled  Tammas.  It  was  the  vision 
of  a  child  in  a  draggled  pinafore,  and  stepping  into 
the  middle  of  the  road  he  looked  down  it  in  the  di- 
rection in  which  Davy  had  passed. 

"Chirsty  Angus'  lassieky,"  he  murmured. 

Tammas  sat  down  cautiously  on  the  dyke  and  un- 
tied the  red  handkerchief  that  contained  the  rem- 
nants of  his  dinner.  When  he  had  smacked  his  lips 
over  his  flagon  of  cold  kail,  and  seen  the  last  of  his 
crumbling  oatmeal  and  cheese,  his  uneasiness  re- 
turned, and  he  again  looked  down  the  road. 

"I  maun  turn  the  bairn,"  was  his  reflection. 

It  was  now,  however,  half  an  hour  since  Davy  had 
passed  Tammas  Haggart's  cairn. 

To  Haggart,  pondering  between  the  strokes  of  his 
hammer,  came  a  mole-catcher,  who  climbed  the  dyke 
and  sat  down  beside  him. 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT  A    FREE  MAN.  13 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  new-comer;  to  which  Tammas 
replied  abstractedly : 

"Jamie." 

"Hae  ye  seen  Davy  Dundas?"  the  stone-breaker 
asked,  after  the  pause  that  followed  this  conversa- 
tion. 

The  mole-catcher  stared  heavily  at  his  corduroys. 

"I  dinna  ken  him,"  he  said,  at  last,  "but  I  hae 
seen  naebody  this  twa  'oors. " 

"  It's  no  a  him,  it's  a  her.  Ye  canna  hae  been  a 
winter  here  withoot  kennin'  Rob  Angus." 

"Ay,  the  saw-miller.  He  was  i'  the  wud  the  day. 
I  saw  his  cart  gae  hame.  Ou,  in  coorse  I  ken  Rob. 
He's  an  amazin'  crittur." 

Tammas  broke  another  stone  as  carefully  as  if  it 
were  a  nut. 

"I  dinna  deny,"  he  said,  "but  what  Rob's  a  curi- 
osity. So  was  his  faither  afore  'im." 

"I've  heard  auld  Rob  was  a  queer  body,"  said 
Jamie,  adding  incredulously,  "they  say  he  shaved 
twice  i'  the  week  an'  wore  a  clean  dicky  ilka  day." 

"  No  what  ye  wad  say  ilka  day,  but  oftener  than 
was  called  for.  Rob  wasna  naturally  ostentatious ; 
na,  it  was  the  wife  'at  insistit  on't.  Nanny  was  a 
terrible  tid  for  cleanness.  Ay,  an'  it's  a  guid  thing 
in  moderation,  but  she  juist  overdid  it;  yes,  she  over- 
did it.  Man,  it  had  sic  a  baud  on  her  'at  even  on 
her  death-bed  they  had  to  bring  a  basin  to  her  to 
wash  her  hands  in." 


14  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"Ay,  ay?  When  there  was  sic  a  pride  in  her  I 
wonder  she  didna  lat  young  Rob  to  the  college,  an' 
him  sae  keen  on't." 

"  Ou,  he  was  gaen,  but  ye  see  auld  Rob  got  gey 
dottle  after  Nanny's  death,  an'  so  young  Rob  stuck  to 
the  saw-mill.  It's  curious  hoo  a  body  misses  his  wife 
when  she's  gone.  Ay,  it's  like  the  clock  stoppin'." 

"  Weel,  Rob's  no  gettin'  to  the  college  hasna  made 
'im  humble." 

"  Ye  dinna  like  Rob?" 

"Hoo  did  ye  find  that  oot?"  asked  Jamie,  a  little 
taken  aback.  "Man,  Tammas,"  he  added,  admir- 
ingly, "ye're  michty  quick  i'  the  uptak." 

Tammas  handed  his  snuff-mull  to  the  mole-catcher, 
and  then  helped  himself. 

"I  daursay,  I  daursay,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

"I've  naething  to  say  agin  the  saw -miller,"  con- 
tinued Jamie,  after  thinking  it  out,  "but  there's 
something  in's  face  'at's  no  sociable.  He  looks  as  if 
he  was  takkin'  ye  aff  in's  inside." 

"  Ay,  auld  Rob  was  a  sarcestic  stock  too.  It  rins 
i'  the  blood." 

"  I  prefer  a  mair  common  kind  o'  man,  bein'  o'  the 
common  kind  myseF." 

"Ay,  there's  naething  sarcestic  about  you,  Jamie," 
admitted  the  stone-breaker. 

"  I'm  an  ord'nar  man,  Tammas." 

"Ye  are,  Jamie,  ye  are." 

"  Maybe  no  sae  oncommon  ord'nar  either." 


ROB    ANGUS   IS   NOT  A   FREE  MAN.  15 

"Middlin'  ord'nar,  rniddlin'  ord'nar." 

"I'm  thinkin'  ye're  braw  an'  sarcestic  yersel', 
Tammas?" 

"I'd  aye  that  repootation,  Jeames.  Am  no  an 
every-day  sarcesticist,  but  juist  noos  an'  nans.  There 
was  ae  time  I  was  speakin'  tae  Easie  Webster,  an'  I 
said  a  terrible  sarcestic  thing.  Ay,  I  dinna  mind 
what  it  was,  but  it  was  michty  sarcestic." 

"It's  a  gift,"  said  the  mole-catcher. 

"A  gift  it  is,"  said  Tammas. 

The  stone-breaker  took  his  flagon  to  a  spring  near 
at  hand,  and  rinsed  it  out.  Several  times  while  pull- 
ing it  up  and  down  the  little  pool  an  uneasy  expres- 
sion crossed  his  face  as  he  remembered  something 
about  a  child,  but  in  washing  his  hands,  using  sand 
for  soap,  Davy  slipped  his  memory,  and  he  returned 
cheerfully  to  the  cairn.  Here  Jamie  was  wagging 
his  head  from  side  to  side  like  a  man  who  had  caught 
himself  thinking. 

"I'll  warrant,  Tammas,"  he  said,  "ye  cudna  tell's 
what  set's  on  to  speak  aboot  Rob  Angus?" 

"  Na,  it's  a  thing  as  has  often  puzzled  me  hoo  we 
select  wan  topic  mair  than  anither.  I  suppose  it's 
like  shootin' ;  ye  juist  blaze  awa'  at  the  first  bird  'at 
rises." 

"  Ye  was  sayin',  had  I  seen  a  lass  wi'  a  lad's  name. 
That  began  it,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  A  lass  wi'  a  lad's  name?  Ay,  noo,  that's  oncom- 
mon.  But  rnebbe  ye  mean  Davy  Dundas?" 


16  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"That's  the  name." 

Tammas  paused  in  the  act  of  buttoning  his  trouser 
pocket. 

"  Did  ye  say  ye'd  seen  Davy?"  he  asked. 

"  Na,  it  was  you  as  said  'at  ye  had  seen  her." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Jamie,  ye're  richt.  Man,  I  fully  meant 
to  turn  the  bairn,  but  she  ran  by  at  sic  a  steek  'at 
there  was  nae  stoppin'  her.  Rob'll  mak  an  awfu' 
ring-ding  if  onything  comes  ower  Davy." 

"  Is't  the  litlin  'at's  aye  wi'  Rob?" 

"  Ay,  it's  Chirsty  Angus'  bairn,  her  'at  was  Rob's 
sister.  A'  her  fowk's  deid  but  Rob. " 

"I've  seen  them  i'  the  saw-mill  thegither.  It 
didna  strick  me  'at  Rob  cared  muckle  for  the  crit- 
tury." 

"  Ou,  Rob's  a  reserved  stock,  but  he's  michty  fond 
o'  her  when  iiaebody's  lookin'.  It  doesna  do,  ye 
ken,  to  lat  on  afore  company  at  ye've  a  kind  o'  re- 
gaird  for  yere  ain  fowk.  Na,  it's  lowerin'.  But  if 
it  wasna  afore  your  time,  ye'd  seen  the  cradle  i'  the 
saw-mill." 

"  I  never  saw  ony  cradle,  Tammas." 

"  Weel,  it  was  unco'  ingenious  o'  Rob.  The  bairn's 
father  an'  mither  was  baith  gone  when  Davy  was  nae 
age,  an'  auld  Rob  passed  awa'  sune  efter.  Rob  had 
it  all  arranged  to  ging  to  the  college — ay,  he'd  been 
workin'  far  on  into  the  nicht  the  hale  year  to  save 
up  siller  to  keep  'imsel'  at  Edinbory,  but  ye  see  he 
promised  Chirsty  to  look  after  Davy  an'  no'  send  her 


ROB   ANGUS   IS  NOT  A    FREE  MAN.  17 

to  the  parish.  He  took  her  to  the  saw-mill  an'  brocht 
her  up  'imsel'.  It  was  a  terrible  disappointment  to 
Rob,  his  mind  bein'  bent  on  becomin'  a  great  leeter- 
ary  genius,  but  he's  been  michty  guid  to  the  bairn. 
Ay,  she's  an  extror'nar  takkin'  dawty,  Davy,  an' 
though  I  wudna  like  it  kent,  I've  a  fell  notion  o'  her 
mysel'.  I  mind  ance  gaen  in  to  Rob's,  an',  wud  ye 
believe,  there  was  the  bit  lassieky  sittin'  in  the  airm- 
chair  wi'  ane  o'  Rob's  books  open  on  her  knees,  an' 
her  pertendin'  to  be  readin'  oot  in't  to  Rob.  The 
tiddy  had  watched  him  readin',  ye  unerstan',  an', 
man,  she  was  mimickin'  'im  to  the  life.  There's 
nae  accountin'  for  thae  things,  but  ondootedly  it  was 
attractive." 

"  But  what  aboot  a  cradle?" 

"Ou,  as  I  was  sayin',  Rob  didna  like  to  lat  the 
bairn  oot  o'  his  sicht,  so  he  made  a  queer  cradle  'im- 
sel', an'  put  it  ower  the  burn.  Ye'll  mind  the  burn 
rins  through  the  saw-mill?  Ay,  weel,  Davy's  cradle 
was  put  across't  wi'  the  paddles  sae  arranged  'at  the 
watter  rocked  the  cradle.  Man,  the  burn  was  juist 
like  a  mither  to  Davy,  for  no'  only  did  it  rock  her  to 
sleep,  but  it  sang  to  the  bairn  the  hale  time." 

"That  was  an  ingenious  contrivance,  Tammas; 
but  it  was  juist  like  Rob  Angus'  ind'pendence. 
The  crittur  aye  perseests  in  doin'  a'thing  for  'imsel'. 
I  mind  ae  day  seein'  Cree  Deuchars  puttin'  in  a  win- 
dow into  the  saw-mill  hoose,  an'  Rob's  fingers  was 
fair  itchin'  to  do't  quick  'imsel' ;  ye  ken  Cree's  fell 


18  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

slow?  'See  baud  o'  the  potty,'  cries  Rob,  an'  losh, 
he  had  the  window  in  afore  Cree  cud  hae  cut  the 
glass.  Ay,  ye  canna  deny  but  what  Rob's  fearfu' 
independent." 

"  So  was  his  faither.  I  call  to  mind  auld  Rob  an' 
the  minister  haen  a  termendous  debate  aboot  justifi- 
cation by  faith,  an'  says  Rob  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day, 
gettin'  passionate-like,  'I  tell  ye  flat,  Hester  Byars,' 
he  says,  'if  I  dinna  ging  to  heaven  in  my  ain  wy,  I 
dinna  ging  aval' " 

"  Losh,  losh !  he  wudna  hae  said  that,  though,  to 
oor  minister ;  na,  he  wudna  hae  daured. " 

"Ye're  a  IT.  P.,  Jamie?"  asked  the  .stone- 
breaker. 

"I  was  born  IT.  P.,"  replied  the  mole-catcher 
firmly,  "an'  U.  P.  I'll  die." 

"I  say  naething  agin  yer  releegion,"  replied  Tam- 
mas,  a  little  contemptuously,  "  but  to  compare  yer 
minister  to  oors  is  a  haver.  Man,  when  Mester 
Byars  was  oor  minister,  Sanders  Dobie,  the  wricht, 
had  a  standin'  engagement  to  mend  the  poopit  ilka 
month." 

"We'll  no'  speak  o'  releegion,  Tammas,  or  we'll 
be  quarrellin'.  Ye  micht  tell' a,  though,  hoo  they 
cam  to  gie  a  lassieky  sic  a  man's  name  as  Davy." 

"  It  was  an  accident  at  the  christenin'.  Ye  see, 
Hendry  Dundas  an'  Chirsty  was  both  vary  young, 
an'  when  the  bairn  was  born  they  were  shy-like  aboot 
makkin'  the  affair  public;  ay,  Hendry  cud  hardly 


ROB    ANGUS   IS  NOT  A    FREE  MAN.  19 

tak  courage  to  tell  the  minister.  When  he  was  had- 
din'  up  the  bit  tid  in  the  kirk  to  be  baptized  he  was 
remarkable  egitated.  Weel,  the  minister — it  was 
Mester  Dishart — somehoo  had  a  notion  'at  the  litlin 
was  a  laddie,  an'  when  he  reads  the  name  on  the 
paper,  'Margaret  Dundas,'  he  looks  at  Hendry  wi' 
the  bairny  in's  airms,  an'  says  he,  stern-like,  'The 
child's  a  boy,  is  he  not?'  " 

"  Sal,  that  was  a  predeecament  for  Hendry." 
"  Ay,  an'  Hendry  was  confused,  as  a  man  often  is 
wi'  his  first;  so  says  he,  all  trem'lin',  'Yes,  Mr.  Dis- 
hart.'    'Then,'  says  the  minister,  'I  cannot  christen 
him    Margaret,  so    I   will   call  him   David.'      An' 
Davit  the  litlin  was  baptized,  sure  eneuch." 
"  The  mither  wud  be  in  a  michty  wy  at  that?" 
"  She  was  so,  but  as  Hendry  said,  when  she  chal- 
lenged him  on  the  subject,  says  Hendry,  'I  dauredna 
conterdick  the  minister. '  " 

Haggart's  work  being  now  over  for  the  day,  he  sat 
down  beside  Jamie  to  await  some  other  stone-breakers 
who  generally  caught  him  up  on  their  way  home. 
Strange  figures  began  to  emerge  from  the  woods,  a 
dumb  man  with  a  barrowful  of  roots  for  firewood, 
several  women  in  men's  coats,  one  smoking  a  cutty- 
pipe.  A  farm-laborer  pulled  his  heavy  legs  in  their 
rustling  corduroys  alongside  a  field  of  swedes,  a 
ragged  potato  bogle  brandished  its  arms  in  a  sudden 
puff  of  wind.  Several  men  and  women  reached  Hag- 
gart's cairn  about  the  same  time,  and  said,  "It  is 


20  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

so,"  or  "ay,  ay,"  to  him,  according  as  they  were 
loquacious  or  merely  polite. 

"We  was  speakin'  aboot  matermony,"  the  mole- 
catcher  remarked,  as  the  back-bent  little  party  strag- 
gled toward  Thrums. 

"It's  a  caution,"  murmured  the  farm-laborer,  who 
had  heard  the  observation  from  the  other  side  of  the 
dyke.  "Ay,  ye  may  say  so,"  he  added,  thoughtfully 
addressing  himself. 

With  the  mole-catcher's  companions,  however,  the 
talk  passed  into  another  rut.  Nevertheless  Haggart 
was  thinking  matrimony  over,  and  by  and  by  he  saw 
his  way  to  a  joke,  for  one  of  the  other  stone-breakers 
had  recently  married  a  very  small  woman,  and  in 
Thrums,  where  women  have  to  work,  the  far-seeing 
men  prefer  their  wives  big. 

"Ye  drew  a  sma'  prize  yersel',  Sam'l,"  said  Tam- 
mas,  with  the  gleam  in  his  eye  which  showed  that 
he  was  now  in  sarcastic  fettle. 

"Ay, "said  the  mole-catcher,  "SainTs  Kitty  is 
sma'.  I  suppose  Sam'l  thocht  it  wud  be  prudent-like 
to  begin  in  a  modest  way." 

"If  Kitty  hadna  haen  sae  sma'  hands,"  said  an- 
other stone-breaker,  "  I  wud  hae  haen  a  bid  for  her 
mysel'." 

The  women  smiled ;  they  had  very  large  hands. 

"They  say,"  said  the  youngest  of  them,  who  had 
a  load  of  firewood  on  her  back,  "  'at  there's  places 
whaur  little  hands  is  thocht  muckle  oV 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT  A   FREE  MAN.  21 

There  was  an  incredulous  laugh  at  this. 

"I  wudna  wonder,  though,"  said  the  mole-catcher, 
who  had  travelled ;  "  there's  some  michty  queer  ideas 
i'  the  big  toons." 

"Ye'd  better  ging  to  the  big  toons,  then,  Sam'l," 
suggested  the  merciless  Tammas. 

Sam'l  woke  up. 

" Kitty's  sma',"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  "but  she's 
an  auld  tid." 

"What  made  ye  think  o'  speirin'  her,  Sam'l?" 

"I  cudna  say  for  sartin,"  answered  Sam'l,  reflect- 
ively. "  I  had  nae  intention  o't  till  I  saw  Pete  Proc- 
tor after  her,  an'  syne,  thinks  I,  I'll  hae  her.  Ay, 
ye  micht  say  as  Pete  was  the  instrument  o'  Provi- 
dence in  that  case." 

"Man,  man,"  murmured  Jamie,  who  knew  Pete, 
"  Providence  sometimes  maks  use  o'  strange  instru- 
ments. " 

"  Ye  was  lang  in  gettin'  a  man  yersel',  Jinny,"  said 
Tammas  to  an  elderly  woman. 

"Fower-an' -forty  year,"  replied  Jinny.  "It  was 
like  a  stockin',  lang  i'  the  futin',  but  turned  at  last." 

"Lassies  nooadays,"  said  the  old  woman  who 
smoked,  "is  partikler  by  what  they  used  to  be.  I 
mind  when  Jeames  Gowrie  speired  me:  'Ye  wud 
raither  hae  Davit  Curly,  I  ken, '  he  says.  '  I  dinna 
deny't,'  I  says,  for  the  thing  was  well  kent,  'but 
ye'll  do  vara  weel,  Jeames, '  says  I,  an'  mairy  him  I 
did." 


22  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"He  was  a  harmless  crittur,  Jeames,"  said  Hag- 
gart,  "  but  queer.  Ay,  he  was  full  o'  maggots." 

"Ay,"  said  Jeames'  widow,  "but  though  it's  no' 
for  me  to  say't,  he  deid  a  deacon." 

"  There's  some  rale  queer  wys  o'  speirin'  a  wum- 
an,"  began  the  mole-catcher. 

"Vary  true,  Jamie,"  said  a  stone-breaker.  "I 
mind  hoo — 

"  There  was  a  chappy  ower  by  Blair,"  continued  Ja- 
mie, raising  his  voice,  "  'at  micht  hae  been  a  single 
man  to  this  day  if  it  hadna  been  for  the  toothache." 

"Ay,  man?" 

"Joey  Fargus  was  the  stock's  name.  He  was  on- 
common  troubled  wi'  the  toothache  till  he  found  a 
cure. " 

"  I  didna  ken  o'  ony  cure  for  sair  teeth?" 

"  Joey's  cure  was  to  pour  cauld  watter  stretcht  on 
into  his  mooth  for  the  maitter  o'  twa  'oors,  an'  ane 
day  he  cam  into  Blair  an'  found  Jess  McTaggart  (a 
speerity  bit  thingy  she  was — ou,  she  was  so)  fair 
greetin'  wi'  sair  teeth.  Joey  advised  the  crittur  to 
try  his  cure,  an'  when  he  left  she  was  pourin'  the 
watter  into  her  mooth  ower  the  sink.  Weel,  it  soo 
happened  'at  Joey  was  in  Blair  again  aboot  twa'** 
month  after,  an'  he  gies  a  cry  in  at  Willie's — that's 
Jess'  father's,  as  ye'll  un'erstan'.  Ay,  then  Jess 
had  haen  anither  fit  o'  the  toothache,  an'  she  was 
hingin'  ower  the  sink  wi'  a  tanker  o'  watter  in  her 
han',  juist  as  she'd  been  when  he  saw  her  last. 


ROB   ANGUS   IS   NOT  A   FREE  HAN.  23 

'  What!'  says  Joey,  wi'  rale  consairn,  'nae  better 
yet?'  The  stock  thocht  she  had  been  haddin'  gaen 
at  the  watter  a'  thae  twa  month." 

"  I  call  to  mind,"  the  stone-breaker  broke  in  again, 
"  hoo  a  body " 

"So,"  continued  Jamie,  "Joey  cudna  help  but  ad- 
mire the  patience  o'  the  lassie,  an'  says  he,  'Jess,'  he 
says,  'come  cot  by  to  Mortar  Pits,  an'  try  oor  well.' 
That's  hoo  Joey  Fargus  speired's  wife,  an'  if  ye 
dinna  believe's,  ye've  nae  mair  to  do  but  ging  to 
Mortar  Pits  an'  see  the  well  yersels." 

"I  recall,"  said  the  stone-breaker,  "a  vary  neat 
case  o'  speirin'.  It  was  Jocky  Wilkie,  him  'at's 
brither  was  grieve  to  Broken  Busses,  an'  the  lass 
was  Leeby  Lunan.  She  was  aye  puttin'  Jocky  aff 
when  he  was  on  the  point  o'  speirin'  her,  keepin'  'im 
hingin'  on  the  hook  like  a  trout,  as  ye  may  say,  an' 
takkin'  her  fling  wi'  ither  lads  at  the  same  time." 

"Ay,  I've  kent  them  do  that." 

"  Weel,  it  fair  maddened  Jocky,  so  ane  nicht  he 
gings  to  her  father's  hoose  wi'  a  present  o'  a  grand 
thimble  to  her  in  his  pooch,  an'  afore  the  hale  hoose- 
hold  he  perdooces't  an  flings't  wi'  a  bang  on  the 
dresser:  'Tak  it,'  he  says  to  Leeby,  'or  leave't.'  In 
coorse  the  thing's  bein'  done  sae  public-like,  Leeby 
kent  she  had  to  mak  up  her  mind  there  an'  then. 
Ay,  she  took  it." 

"But  hoo  did  ye  speir  Chirsty  yersel',  Dan'l?" 
asked  Jinny  of  the  speaker. 


24  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  for,  as  was  well  known, 
Dan'l  had  jilted  Chirsty. 

"I  never  kent  I  had  speired,"  replied  the  stone- 
breaker,  "till  Chirsty  told  me." 

"  Ye'll  no'  say  ye  wasna  fond  o'  her?" 

"  Sometimes  I  was,  an'  syne  at  other  times  I  was 
indifferent-like.  The  mair  I  thocht  o't  the  mair 
risky  I  saw  it  was,  so  i'  the  tail  o'  the  day  I  says  to 
Chirsty,  says  I,  'Na,  na,  Chirsty,  lat'sbe  as  I  am.'" 

"They  say  she  took  on  terrible,  Dan'l." 

"  Ay,  nae  doot,  but  a  man  has  'imsel'  to  conseeder." 

By  this  time  they  had  crossed  the  moor  of  whins. 
It  was  a  cold,  still  evening,  and  as  they  paused  be- 
fore climbing  down  into  the  town  they  heard  the 
tinkle  of  a  bell. 

•'That's  Snecky's  bell,"  said  the  mole-catcher. 
"  What  can  he  be  cryin'  at  this  time  o'  nicht?" 

"There's  something  far  wrang,"  said  one  of  the 
women.  "Look,  a 'body's  rinnin'  to  the  square." 

The  troubled  look  returned  to  Tammas  Haggart's 
face,  and  he  stopped  to  look  back  across  the  fast- 
darkening  moor. 

"  Did  ony  o'  ye  see  little  Davy  Dundas,  the  saw- 
miller's  bairny?"  he  began. 

At  that  moment  a  young  man  swept  by.  His 
teeth  were  clinched,  his  eyes  glaring. 

"Speak  o'  the  deil,"  said  the  mole-catcher:  "that 
was  Rob  Angus." 


CHAPTER  II. 

ROB  BECOMES  FREE. 

As  Haggart  hobbled  down  into  the  square,  in  the 
mole-catcher's  rear,  Hobart's  cracked  bell  tinkled  up 
the  back-wynd,  and  immediately  afterward  the  bell- 
man took  his  stand  by  the  side  of  Tarn  Peter's  fish- 
cart.  Snecky  gave  his  audience  time  to  gather,  for 
not  every  day  was  it  given  him  to  cry  a  lost  bairn. 
The  words  fell  slowly  from  his  reluctant  lips.  Be- 
fore he  flung  back  his  head  and  ejected  his  proclama- 
tion in  a  series  of  puffs  he  was  the  possessor  of  exclu- 
sive news,  but  his  tongue  had  hardly  ceased  to  roll 
round  the  concluding  sentence  when  the  crowd  took 
up  the  cry  themselves.  Wives  flinging  open  their 
windows  shouted  their  fears  across  the  wynds. 
Davy  Dundas  had  wandered  from  the  kirkyard, 
where  Rob  had  left  her  in  Kitty  Wilkie's  charge  till 
he  returned  from  the  woods.  What  had  Kitty  been 
about?  It  was  believed  that  the  litlin  had  taken 
with  her  a  letter  that  had  come  for  Rob.  Was  Rob 
back  from  the  woods  yet?  Ay,  he  had  scoured  the 
whole  countryside  already  for  her. 

Men  gathered  on  the  saw-mill  brig,  looking  per- 
plexedly at  the  burn  that  swivelled  at  this  point,  a 
25 


26  WHEN  A   MAX'S  SINGLE. 

sawdust  color,  between  wooden  boards ;  but  the  wom- 
en pressed  their  bairns  closely  to  their  wrappers  and 
gazed  in  each  other's  faces. 

A  log  of  wood,  with  which  some  one  had  sought  to 
improvise  a  fire  between  the  bricks  that  narrowed 
Rob  Angus'  grate,  turned  peevishly  to  charcoal  with- 
out casting  much  light  on  the  men  and  women  in 
the  saw-mill  kitchen.  Already  the  burn  had  been 
searched  near  the  mill,  with  Rob's  white  face  staring 
at  the  searchers  from  his  door. 

The  room  was  small  and  close.  A  closet-bed  with 
the  door  off  afforded  seats  for  several  persons;  and 
Davit  Lunan,  the  tinsmith,  who  could  read  Homer 
with  Rob  in  the  original,  sat  clumsily  on  the  dresser. 
The  j>eudulum  of  a  wag-at-the-wa'  clock  swung  si- 
lently against  the  wall,  casting  a  mouse-like  shadow 
on  the  hearth.  Over  the  mantelpiece  was  a  sampler 
in  many  colors,  the  work  of  Rob's  mother  when  she 
was  still  a  maid.  The  book-case,  fitted  into  a  recess 
that  had  once  held  a  press,  was  Rob's  own  handi- 
work, and  contained  more  books  than  any  other  house 
in  Thrums.  Overhead  the  thick  wooden  rafters  were 
crossed  with  saws  and  staves. 

There  was  a  painful  silence  in  the  gloomy  room. 
Snecky  Hobart  tried  to  break  the  log  in  the  fire-place, 
using  his  leg  as  a  poker,  but  desisted  when  he  saw 
every  eye  turned  on  him.  A  glitter  of  sparks  shot 
up  the  chimney,  and  the  starling  in  the  window  be- 
gan to  whistle.  Pete  Todd  looked  undecidedly  at  the 


ROB   BECOMES  FREE.  27 

minister,  and,  lifting  a  sack,  flung  it  over  the  bird's 
cage,  as  if  anticipating  the  worst.  In  Thrums  they 
veil  their  cages  if  there  is  a  death  in  the  house. 

"What  do  ye  mean,  Pete  Todd?"  cried  Rob  An- 
gus fiercely. 

His  voice  broke,  but  he  seized  the  sack  and  cast  it 
on  the  floor.  The  starling,  however,  whistled  no 
more. 

Looking  as  if  he  could  strike  Pete  Todd,  Rob  stood 
in  the  centre  of  his  kitchen,  a  saw-miller  for  the  last 
time.  Though  they  did  not  know  it,  his  neighbors 
there  were  photographing  him  in  their  minds,  and 
their  children  were  destined  to  gape  in  the  days  to 
come  over  descriptions  of  Rob  Angus  in  corduroys. 

These  pictures  showed  a  broad-shouldered  man  of 
twenty-six,  whose  face  was  already  rugged.  A  short 
brown  beard  hid  the  heavy  chin,  and  the  lips  were 
locked  as  if  Rob  feared  to  show  that  he  was  anxious 
about  the  child.  His  clear  gray  eyes  were  younger- 
looking  than  his  forehead,  and  the  swollen  balls  be- 
neath them  suggested  a  student  rather  than  a  working- 
man.  His  hands  were  too  tanned  and  hard  ever  to 
be  white,  and  he  delved  a  little  in  his  walk,  as  if  he 
felt  uncomfortable  without  a  weight  on  his  back. 
He  was  the  best  saw-miller  in  his  county,  but  his 
ambition  would  have  scared  his  customers  had  he 
not  kept  it  to  himself.  Many  a  time  strangers  had 
stared  at  him  as  he  strode  along  the  Whunny  road, 
and  wondered  what  made  this  stalwart  man  whirl 


28  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

the  axe  that  he  had  been  using  as  a  staff.  Then  Rob 
was  thinking  of  the  man  he  was  going  to  be  when 
he  could  safely  leave  little  Davy  behind  him,  and  it 
was  not  the  firs  of  the  Whunny  wood  that  were  in 
his  eye,  but  a  roaring  city  and  a  saw-miller  taking 
it  by  the  throat.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he 
bore  no  love  for  the  bairn  who  came  between  him 
and  his  career. 

Rob  was  so  tall  that  he  could  stand  erect  in  but  few 
rooms  in  Thrums,  and  long  afterward,  when  very 
different  doors  opened  to  him,  he  still  involuntarily 
ducked,  as  he  crossed  a  threshold,  to  save  his  head. 
Up  to  the  day  on  which  Davy  wandered  from  home 
he  had  never  lifted  his  hat  to  a  lady ;  when  he  did 
that  the  influence  of  Thrums  would  be  broken  forever. 

"It's  oncommon  foolish  o'  Rob,"  said  Pete  Todd, 
retreating  to  the  side  of  the  mole -catcher,  "no'  to  be 
mair  resigned-like." 

"It's  his  ind'pendence,"  answered  Jamie;  "ay, 
the  wricht  was  sayin'  the  noo,.says  he,  'If  Davy's 
deid,  Rob'll  mak  the  coffin  'imseP,  he's  sae  michty 
ind'pendent.'" 

Tammas  Haggart  stumbled  into  the  saw-miller's 
kitchen.  It  would  have  been  a  womanish  kind  of 
thing  to  fling  to  the  door  behind  him. 

"Fine  growin'  day,  Rob,"  he  said,  deliberately. 

"It  is  so,  Tammas,"  answered  the  saw-miller  hos- 
pitably, for  Haggart  had  been  his  father's  bosom 
friend. 


ROB  BECOMES   FREE.  29 

"No'  much  drowth,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  Hobart, 
relieved  by  the  turn  the  conversation  had  taken. 

Tammas  pulled  from  beneath  the  table  an  unsteady 
three-legged  stool — Davy's  stool — and  sat  down  on  it 
slowly.  Rob  took  a  step  nearer  as  if  to  ask  him  to 
sit  somewhere  else,  and  then  turned  away  his  head. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Haggart. 

Then,  as  he  saw  the  others  gathering  round  the 
minister  at  the  door,  he  moved  uneasily  on  his  stool. 

"  Whaur's  Davy?"  he  said. 

"Did  ye  no'  ken  she  was  lost?"  the  saw-miller 
asked,  in  a  voice  that  was  hardly  his  own. 

"  Ay,  I  kent,"  said  Tammas ;  "  she's  on  the  Whunn}' 
road." 

Rob  had  been  talking  to  the  minister  in  what  both 
thought  English,  which  in  Thrums  is  considered  an 
ostentatious  language,  but  he  turned  on  Tammas  in 
broad  Scotch.  In  the  years  to  come,  when  he  could 
wear  gloves  without  concealing  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  excitement  brought  on  Scotch  as  a  poultice 
raises  blisters. 

"Tammas  Haggart,"  he  cried,  pulling  the  stone- 
breaker  off  his  stool. 

The  minister  interposed. 

"Tell  us  what  you  know  at  once,  Tammas,"  said 
Mr.  Dishart,  who,  out  of  the  pulpit,  bad  still  a  heart. 

It  was  a  sad  tale  that  Haggart  had  to  tell,  if  a 
short  one,  and  several  of  the  listeners  shook  their 
heads  as  they  heard  it. 


30  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"I  meant  to  turn  the  lassieky,"  the  stone-breaker 
explained,  "but,  ou,  she  was  past  in  a  twinklin'." 

On  the  saw-mill  brig  the  minister  quickly  organized 
a  search  party,  the  brig  that  Rob  had  floored  anew 
but  the  week  before,  rising  daily  with  the  sun  to  do 
it  because  the  child's  little  boot  had  caught  in  a  worn 
board.  From  it  she  had  often  crooned  to  watch  the 
dank  mill-wheel  climbing  the  bouncing  burn.  Ah, 
Rob,  the  rotten  old  planks  would  have  served  your 
turn. 

"The  Whunny  road,"  were  the  words  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  and  the  driblet  of  men  fell  into  line. 

Impetuous  is  youth,  and  the  minister  was  not  per- 
haps greatly  to  blame  for  starting  at  once.  But  Lang 
Tammas,  his  chief  elder,  paused  on  the  threshold. 

"The  Lord  giveth,"  be  said,  solemnly,  taking  off 
his  hat  and  letting  the  night  air  cut  through  his  white 
hair,  "and  the  Lord  taketh  away:  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord." 

The  saw-miller  opened  his  mouth,  but  no  words 
came. 

The  little  search  party  took  the  cold  Whunny  road. 
The  day  had  been  bright  and  fine,  and  still  there  was 
a  smell  of  flowers  in  the  air.  The  fickle  flowers! 
They  had  clustered  round  Davy  and  nestled  on  her 
neck  when  she  drew  the  half-ashamed  saw-miller 
through  the  bleating  meadows,  and  now  they  could 
smile  on  him  when  he  came  alone — all  except  the 
daisies.  The  daisies,  that  cannot  play  a  child  false, 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE.  31 

had  craned  their  necks  to  call  Davy  back  as  she 
tripped  over  them,  and  bowed  their  heavy  little  heads 
as  she  toddled  on.  It  was  from  them  that  the  bairn's 
track  was  learned  after  she  wandered  from  the 
Whunny  road. 

By  and  by  the  hills  ceased  to  echo  their  wailing 
response  to  Hobart's  bell. 

Far  in  the  rear  of  the  more  eager  searchers  the 
bellman  and  the  joiner  had  found  a  seat  on  a  mossy 
bank,  and  others,  footsore  and  weary,  had  fallen  else- 
where from  the  ranks.  The  minister  and  half  a  dozen 
others  scattered  over  the  fields  and  on  the  hillsides 
despondent,  but  not  daring  to  lag.  Tinkers  cowered 
round  their  kettles  under  threatening  banks,  and  the 
squirrels  were  shadows  gliding  from  tree  to  tree. 

At  a  distant  smithy  a  fitful  light  still  winked  to 
the  wind,  but  the  farm  lamps  were  out  and  all  the 
land  was  hushed.  It  was  now  long  past  midnight 
in  country  parts. 

Rob  Angus  was  young  and  strong,  but  the  heaven- 
sent gift  of  tears  was  not  for  him.  Blessed  the  moan- 
ing mother  by  the  cradle  of  her  eldest-born,  and  the 
maid  in  tears  for  the  lover  who  went  out  so  brave  in 
the  morning  and  was  not  at  evenfall,  and  the  weep- 
ing sister  who  can  pray  for  her  soldier  brother,  and 
the  wife  on  her  husband's  bosom. 

Some  of  his  neighbors  had  thought  it  unmanly 
when  Rob,  at  the  rumble  of  a  cart,  hurried  from  the 
saw -mill  to  snatch  the  child  in  his  arms,  and  bear 


32  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

her  to  a  bed  of  shavings.  At  such  a  time  Davy  would 
lift  a  saw  to  within  an  inch  of  her  baby-face,  and 
then,  letting  it  fall  with  a  wicked  chuckle,  run  to  the 
saw-miller's  arms,  as  sure  of  her  lover  as  ever  maiden 
was  of  man. 

A  bashful  lover  he  had  been,  shy,  not  of  Davy,  but 
of  what  men  would  say,  and  now  the  time  had  come 
when  he  looked  wistfully  back  to  a  fevered  child  toss- 
ing in  a  dark  bed,  the  time  when  a  light  burned  all 
night  in  Rob's  kitchen,  and  a  trembling,  heavy-eyed 
man  sat  motionless  on  a  high-backed  chair.  How 
noiselessly  he  approached  the  bonny  mite  and  replaced 
the  arm  that  had  wandered  from  beneath  the  cover- 
let !  Ah,  for  the  old  time  when  a  sick,  imperious  child 
told  her  uncle  to  lie  down  beside  her,  and  Rob  sat  on 
the  bed,  looking  shamefacedly  at  the  minister.  Mr. 
Disliart  had  turned  away  his  head.  Such  things  are 
not  to  be  told.  They  are  between  a  man  and  his  God. 

Far  up  the  Whunny  hill  they  found  Davy's  little 
shoe.  Rob  took  it  in  his  hand,  a  muddy,  draggled 
shoe  that  had  been  a  pretty  thing  when  he  put  it  on 
her  foot  that  morning.  The  others  gathered  austerely 
around  him,  and  strong  Rob  stood  still  among  the 
brackens. 

"I'm  dootin'  she's  deid,"  said  Tammas  Haggart. 

Haggart  looked  into  the  face  of  old  Rob's  son,  end 
then  a  strange  and  beautiful  thing  happened.  To 
the  wizened  stone-breaker  it  was  no  longer  the  som- 
bre Whunny  hill  that  lay  before  him.  Two  bare- 


ROB   BECOMES   FREE.  33 

footed  herd -laddies  were  on  the  green  fields  of 
adjoining  farms.  The  moon  looking  over  the  hills 
found  them  on  their  ragged  backs,  with  the  cows 
munching  by  their  side.  They  had  grown  different 
boys,  nor  known  why,  among  the  wild  roses  of  red 
and  white,  and  trampling  neck-high  among  the  ferns. 
Haggart  saw  once  again  the  raspberry  bushes  they 
had  stripped  together  into  flagons  gleaming  in  the 
grass.  Rob  had  provided  the  bent  pin  with  which 
Tammas  lured  his  first  trout  to  land,  and  Tammas  in 
return  had  invited  him  to  thraw  the  neck  of  a  doomed 
hen.  They  had  wandered  hand-in-hand  through 
thirsty  grass,  when  scythes  whistled  in  the  corn- 
fields, and  larks  thrilled  overhead,  and  braes  were 
golden  with  broom. 

They  are  two  broad-shouldered  men  now,  and  Hag- 
gart's  back  is  rounding  at  the  loom.  From  his  broken 
window  he  can  see  Rob  at  the  saw-mill,  whistling  as 
the  wheel  goes  round.  It  is  Saturday  night,  and  they 
are  in  the  square,  clean  and  dapper,  talking  with 
other  gallants  about  lasses.  They  are  courting  the 
same  maid,  and  she  sits  on  a  stool  by  the  door,  knit- 
ting a  stocking,  with  a  lover  on  each  side.  They 
drop  in  on  her  mother  straining  the  blaeberry  juice 
through  a  bag  suspended  between  two  chairs.  They 
sheepishly  admire  while  Easie  singes  a  hen ;  for  love 
of  her  they  help  her  father  to  pit  his  potatoes ;  and 
then,  for  love  of  the  other,  each  gives  her  up.  It  is  a 
Friday  night,  and  from  a  but  and  ben  around  which 


34  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

the  rabble  heave  and  toss,  a  dozen  couples  emerge  in 
strangely  gay  and  bright  apparel.  Rob  leads  the 
way  with  one  lass,  and  Tammas  follows  with  another. 
It  must  be  Rob's  wedding-day. 

Dim  grow  Tammas'  eyes  on  the  Whunny  hill. 
The  years  whirl  by,  and  already  he  sees  a  grumpy 
gravedigger  go  out  to  dig  Rob's  grave.  Alas !  for 
the  flash  into  the  past  that  sorrow  gives.  As  he 
clutches  young  Rob's  hand  the  light  dies  from  Tarn- 
mas'  eyes,  his  back  grows  round  and  bent,  and  the 
hair  is  silvered  that  lay  hi  tousled  locks  on  a  lad's 
head. 

A  nipping  wind  cut  the  search  party  and  fled  down 
the  hill  that  was  changing  in  color  from  black  to 
gray.  The  searchers  might  have  been  smugglers 
laden  with  whiskey  bladders,  such  as  haunted  the 
mountain  in  bygone  days.  Far  away  at  Thrums 
mothers  still  wrung  their  hands  for  Davy,  but  the 
men  slept. 

Heads  were  bared,  and  the  minister  raised  his 
voice  in  prayer.  One  of  the  psalms  of  David  trem- 
bled in  the  gray  of  the  morning  straight  to  heaven ; 
and  then  two  young  men,  glancing  at  Mr.  Dishart, 
raised  aloft  a  fallen  rowan-tree,  to  let  it  fall  as  it 
listed.  It  fell  pointing  straight  down  the  hiD,  and 
the  search  party  took  that  direction;  all  but  Rob, 
who  stood  motionless  with  the  shoe  in  his  hand. 
He  did  not  seem  to  comprehend  the  minister's  beck- 
oning. 


ROB  BECOMES  FREE.  35 

Haggart  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"Rob,  man,  Rob  Angus,"  he  said,  "she  was  but 
fower  year  auld." 

The  stone-breaker  unbuttoned  his  trouser-pocket, 
and  with  an  unsteady  hand  drew  out  his  snuff-mull. 
Rob  tried  to  take  it,  but  his  arm  trembled,  and  the 
muff  fell  among  the  heather. 

"Keep  yourselves  from  idols,"  said  Lang  Tammas 
sternly. 

But  the  minister  was  young,  and  children  lisped 
his  name  at  the  white  manse  among  the  trees  at 
home.  He  took  the  shoe  from  the  saw-miller  who 
had  once  been  independent,  and  they  went  down  the 
hill  together. 

Davy  lay  dead  at  the  edge  of  the  burn  that  gurgles 
on  to  the  saw-mill,  one  little  foot  washed  by  the 
stream.  The  Whunny  had  rocked  her  to  sleep  for 
the  last  time.  Half  covered  with  grass,  her  baby  fist 
still  clutched  the  letter.  When  Rob  saw  her,  betook* 
his  darling  dead  bairn  in  his  arms  and  faced  the 
others  with  cracking  jaws. 

"I  dinna  ken,"  said  Tammas  Haggart,  after  a 
pause, "but  what  it's  kind  o'  nat'ral." 


CHAPTER   III. 

ROB  GOES   OUT    INTO   THE   WORLD. 

ONE  evening,  nearly  a  month  after  Rob  Angus  be- 
came "single,"  Mr.  George  Frederick  Licquorish, 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Silchester  Mirror,  was 
sitting  in  his  office  cutting  advertisements  out  of  the 
Silchester  Argus,  and  pasting  each  on  a  separate 
sheet  of  paper.  These  advertisements  had  not  been 
sent  to  the  Mirror,  and,  as  he  thought  this  a  pity, 
he  meant,  through  his  canvasser,  to  call  the  attention 
of  the  advertisers  to  the  omission. 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  a  stout  little  man,  with  a  be- 
nevolent countenance,  who  wrote  most  of  his  leaders 
on  the  backs  of  old  envelopes.  Every  few  minutes 
he  darted  into  the  composing-room,  with  an  alertness 
that  was  a  libel  on  his  genial  face;  and  when  he  re- 
turned it  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  kindly,  good- 
natured  manner  in  which  he  chaffed  tho  printer's 
devil  who  was  trying  to  light  the  fire.  It  was,  how- 
ever, also  noticeable  that  what  the  devil  said  subse- 
quently x>  another  devil  was,  "  But,  you  know,  he 
wouldn't  o^ive  me  any  sticks." 

The  Mirror  and  the  Argus  are  two  daily  news- 
papers published  in  Silchester,  each  of  which  has  the 
36 


ROB   GOES  OUT  INTO   THE  WORLD.  37 

largest  circulation  in  tho  district,  and  is  therefore 
much  the  better  advertising  medium.  Silchester  is 
the  chief  town  of  an  English  midland  county,  and 
the  Mirror's  business  note-paper  refers  to  it  as  the 
centre  of  a  population  of  half  a  million  souls. 

The  Mirror's  offices  are  nearly  crushed  out  of 
sight  in  a  block  of  buildings,  left  in  the  middle  of  a 
street  for  town  councils  to  pull  down  gradually.  This 
island  of  houses,  against  which  a  sea  of  humanity 
beats  daily,  is  cut  in  two  by  a  narrow  passage,  off 
which  several  doors  open.  One  of  these  leads  up  a 
dirty  stair  to  the  editorial  and  composing-rooms  of 
the  Daily  Mirror,  and  down  a  dirty  stair  to  its 
printing-rooms.  It  is  the  door  at  which  you  may 
hammer  for  an  hour  without  any  one's  paying  the 
least  attention. 

During  the  time  the  boy  took  to  light  Mr.  Licquor- 
ish's  fire,  a  young  man  in  a  heavy  overcoat  knocked 
more  than  once  at  the  door  in  the  alley,  and  then 
moved  off  as  if  somewhat  relieved  that  there  was  no 
response.  He  walked  round  and  round  the  block  of 
buildings,  gazing  upward  at  the  windows  of  the  com- 
posing-room ;  and  several  times  he  ran  against  other 
pedestrians  on  whom  he  turned  fiercely,  and  would 
then  have  begged  their  pardons  had  he  known  what 
to  say.  Frequently  he  felt  in  his  pocket  to  see  if 
his  money  was  still  there,  and  once  he  went  behind  a 
door  and  counted  it.  There  was  three  pounds  seven- 
teen shillings  altogether,  and  he  kept  it  in  a  linen 


38  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

bag  that  had  been  originally  made  for  carrying  worms 
in  when  he  went  fishing.  When  he  re-entered  the 
close  he  always  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  if  any  per- 
sons emerged  from  the  Mirror  office  he  looked  after 
them.  They  were  mostly  telegraph  boys,  who  flut- 
tered out  and  in. 

When  Mr.  Licquorish  dictated  an  article,  as  he 
did  frequently,  the  apprentice  reporter  went  into  the 
editor's  room  to  take  it  down,  and  the  reporters 
always  asked  him,  as  a  favor,  to  shut  George  Fred- 
erick's door  behind  him.  This  apprentice  reporter 
did  the  police  reports  and  the  magazine  notices,  and 
he  wondered  a  good  deal  whether  the  older  reporters 
really  did  like  brandy  and  soda.  The  reason  why 
John  Milton,  which  was  the  unfortunate  name  of 
this  boy,  was  told  to  close  the  editorial  door  behind 
him  was  that  it  was  close  to  the  door  of  the  reporters' 
room,  and  generally  stood  open.  The  impression  the 
reporters'  room  made  on  a  chance  visitor  varied  ac- 
cording as  Mr.  Licquorish's  door  was  ajar  or  shut. 
When  they  heard  it  locked  on  the  inside,  the  reporters 
and  the  sub-editor  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief ;  when  it 
opened  they  took  their  legs  off  the  desk. 

The  editor's  room  had  a  carpet,  and  was  chiefly 
furnished  with  books  sent  in  for  review.  It  was 
more  comfortable,  but  more  gloomy-looking  than  the 
reporters'  room,  which  had  along  desk  running  along 
one  side  of  it,  and  a  bunk  for  holding  coals  and  old 
newspapers  on  the  other  side.  The  floor  was  so  lit- 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO    THE  WORLD.  39 

tered  with  papers,  many  of  them  still  in  their  wrap- 
pers, that,  on  his  way  between  his  seat  and  the  door, 
the  reporter  generally  kicked  one  or  more  into  the 
bunk.  It  was  in  this  way,  unless  an  apprentice  hap- 
pened to  be  otherwise  disengaged,  that  the  floor  was 
swept. 

In  this  room  were  a  reference  library  and  an  old 
coat.  The  library  was  within  reach  of  the  sub-edi- 
tor's hand,  and  contained  some  fifty  books,  which 
the  literary  staff  could  consult,  with  the  conviction 
that  they  would  find  the  page  they  wanted  missing. 
The  coat  had  hung  unbrushed  on  a  nail  for  many 
years,  and  was  so  thick  with  dust  that  John  Milton 
could  draw  pictures  on  it  with  his  finger.  Accord- 
ing to  legend,  it  was  the  coat  of  a  distinguished 
novelist,  who  had  once  been  a  reporter  on  the  Mir- 
ror, and  had  left  Silchester  unostentatiously  by  his 
window. 

It  was  Penny,  the  foreman  in  the  composing-room, 
who  set  the  literary  staff  talking  about  the  new  re- 
porter. Penny  was  a  lank,  loosely  jointed  man  of 
forty,  who  shuffled  about  the  office  in  slippers,  ruled 
the  compositors  with  a  loud  voice  and  a  blustering 
manner,  and  was  believed  to  be  in  Mr.  Licquorish's 
confidence.  His  politics  were  respect  for  the  House 
of  Lords,  because  it  rose  early,  enabling  him  to  have 
it  set  before  supper  time. 

The  foreman  slithered  so  quickly  from  one  room  to 
another  that  he  was  at  the  sub-editor's  elbow  before 


40  WHEN  A    MAN'S   SINGLE. 

his  own  door  had  time  to  shut.  There  was  some 
copy  in  his  hand,  and  he  flung  it  contemptuously  upon 
the  desk. 

"Look  here,  mister,"  he  said,  flinging  the  copy 
upon  the  sub-editor's  desk,  "  I  don't  want  that." 

The  sub-editor  was  twisted  into  as  little  space  as 
possible,  tearing  telegrams  open  and  flinging  the  en- 
velopes aside,  much  as  a  housewife  shells  peas.  His 
name  was  Protheroe,  and  the  busier  he  was  the  more 
he  twisted  himself.  On  Budget  nights  he  was  a  knot. 
He  did  voluntarily  so  much  extra  work  that  Mr. 
Licquorish  often  thought  he  gave  him  too  high  wages ; 
and  on  slack  nights  he  smiled  to  himself,  which 
showed  that  something  pleased  him.  It  was  rather 
curious  that  this  something  should  have  been  himself. 

"But— but,"  cried  Protheroe,  all  in  a  flutter,  "it's 
town  council  meeting ;  it — it  must  be  set,  Mr.  Penny. " 

"  Very  well,  mister ;  then  that  special  from  Birm- 
ingham must  be  slaughtered." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Penny;  why,  that's  a  speech  by 
Bright." 

Penny  sneered  at  the  sub-editor,  and  flung  up  his 
arms  to  imply  that  he  washed  his  hands  of  the  whole 
thing,  as  he  had  done  every  night  for  the  last  ten 
years,  when  there  was  pressure  on  his  space. 
Protheroe  had  been  there  for  half  of  that  time,  yet 
he  still  trembled  before  the  autocrat  of  the  office. 

"There's  enough  copy  on  the  board,"  said  Penny, 
"to  fill  the  paper.  Any  more  specials  coming  in?" 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO    THE  WORLD.  41 

He  asked  this  fiercely,  as  if  of  opinion  that  the  sub- 
editor arranged  with  leading  statesmen  nightly  to 
flood  the  composing-room  of  the  Mirror  with 
speeches,  and  Protheroe  replied  abjectly,  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  doing  it — "  Lord  John  Manners  is 
speaking  at  Nottingham.'"' 

The  foreman  dashed  his  hand  upon  the  desk. 

"Go  it,  mister,  go  it,"  he  cried;  "anything  else? 
Tell  me  Gladstone's  dead  next." 

Sometimes  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Penny 
would  get  sociable,  and  the  sub-editor  was  always 
glad  to  respond.  On  those  occasions  they  talked  with 
bated  breath  of  the  amount  of  copy  that  would  come 
in  should  anything  happen  to  Mr.  Gladstone ;  and 
the  sub-editor,  if  he  was  in  a  despondent  mood,  pre- 
dicted that  it  would  occur  at  midnight.  Thinking  of 
this  had  made  him  a  Conservative. 

"  Nothing  so  bad  as  that,"  he  said,  dwelling  on  the 
subject,  to  show  the  foreman  that  thoy  might  be 
worse  off;  "but  there's  a  column  of  local  coming  ir,. 
and  a  concert  in  the  People's  Hall,  and — 

"And  you  expect  me  to  set  all  that?"  the  foreman 
broke  in.  "  Why,  the  half  of  that  local  should  have 
been  set  by  seven  o'clock,  and  here  I've  only  got  the 
beginning  of  the  town  council  yet.  It's  ridiculous." 

Protheroe  looked  timidly  toward  the  only  reporter 
present,  and  then  apologetically  toward  Penny  for 
having  looked  at  the  reporter. 

"The  stuff  must  be  behind,"  growled  Tomlinson, 


42  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

nicknamed  Umbrage,  "as  long  as  we're  a  man 
short." 

Umbrage  was  very  short  and  stout,  with  a  big 
moon  face,  and  always  wore  his  coat  unbuttoned. 
In  the  streets,  if  be  was  walking  fast  and  there  was 
a  breeze,  his  coat-tails  seemed  to  be  running  after 
him.  He  squinted  a  little,  from  a  habit  he  had  of 
looking  sideways  at  public  meetings  to  see  if  the  au- 
dience was  gazing  at  him.  He  was  "Juvenal"  in 
the  Mirror  on  Friday  mornings,  and  headed  his 
column  of  local  gossip  which  had  that  signature, 
"  Now  step  I  forth  to  whip  hypocrisy." 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  sub-editor,  with  an  insinuat- 
ing glance  at  the  foreman,  "  if  the  new  man  is  ex- 
pected to-night." 

Mr.  Licquorish  had  told  him  that  this  was  so  an 
hour  before,  but  the  cunning  bred  of  fear  advised 
him  to  give  Penny  the  opportunity  of  divulging  the 
news. 

That  worthy  smiled  to  himself,  as  any  man  has  a 
right  to  do  who  has  been  told  something  in  confidence 
by  his  employer. 

"He's  a  Yorkshireman,  I  believe,"  continued  the 
crafty  Protheroe. 

"That's  all  you  know,"  said  the  foreman,  first 
glancing  back  to  see  if  Mr.  Licquorish's  door  was 
shut.  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  told  me  all  about 
him;  he's  a  Scotsman  called  Angus,  that's  never 
been  out  of  his  native  county." 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO    THE  WORLD.  43 

"  He's  one  of  those  compositors  taken  to  literature, 
is  he?"  asked  Umbrage,  who  by  literature  meant  re- 
porting, pausing  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  he  was 
transcribing  from  his  note-book.  "Just  as  I  ex- 
pected," he  added  contemptuously. 

"  No,"  said  the  foreman,  thawing  in  the  rays  of  such 
ignorance ;  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  says  he's  never 
been  on  a  newspaper  before." 

"  An  outsider !"  cried  Umbrage,  in  the  voice  with 
which  outsiders  themselves  would  speak  of  reptiles. 
"They  are  the  ruin  of  the  profession,  they  are." 

"He'll  make  you  all  sit  up,  mister,"  said  Penny, 
with  a  chuckle.  "  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  had  his 
eye  on  him  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  know  how  Mr.  George  Fred- 
erick fell  in  with  him?"  said  the  sub-editor,  basking 
in  Penny's  geniality. 

"  Mr.  George  Frederick  told  me  everything  about 
him — everything,"  said  the  foreman  proudly.  "It 
was  a  parson  that  recommended  him." 

"  A  parson !"  ejaculated  Umbrage,  in  such  a  tone 
that  if  you  had  not  caught  the  word  you  might  have 
thought  he  was  saying  "An  outsider!"  again. 

"Yes,  a  parson  whose  sermon  this  Angus  took 
down  in  shorthand,  I  fancy." 
,  "  What  was  he  doing  taking  down  a  sermon?" 

"  I  suppose  he  was  there  to  hear  it." 

"And  this  is  the  kind  of  man  who  is  taking  to 
literature  nowadays !"  Umbrage  cried. 


44  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  George  Frederick  has  heard  a  great  deal 
about  him,"  continued  Penny  maliciously,  "and  ex- 
pects him  to  do  wonders.  He's  a  self-made  man." 

"Oh,"  said  Umbrage,  who  could  find  nothing  to 
obect  to  in  that,  having  risen  from  comparative  ob- 
scurity himself. 

"Mr.  George  Frederick,"  Penny  went  on,  "offered 
him  a  berth  here  before  Billy  Tagg  was  engaged,  but 
he  couldn't  come." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Juvenal,  with  the  sarcasm  that 
made  him  terrible  on  Fridays,  "the  Times  offered 
him  something  better,  or  was  it  the  Spectator  that 
wanted  an  editor?" 

"  No,  it  was  family  matters.  His  mother  or  his 
sister,  or — let  me  see,  it  was  his  sister's  child — was 
dependent  on  him,  and  could  not  be  left.  Something 
happened  to  her,  though.  She's  dead,  I  think,  so 
he's  a  free  man  now." 

"  Yes,  it  was  his  sister's  child,  and  she  was  found 
dead,"  said  the  sub-editor,  "on  a  mountain-side,  curi- 
ously enough,  with  George  Frederick's  letter  in  her 
hand  offering  Angus  the  appointment." 

Protheroe  was  foolish  to  admit  that  he  knew  this, 
for  it  was  news  to  the  foreman,  but  it  tries  a  man 
severely  to  have  to  listen  to  news  that  he  could  tell 
better  himself.  One  immediate  result  of  the  sub- 
editor's rashness  was  that  Rob  Angus  sunk  several 
stages  in  Penny's  estimation. 

"I  dare  say  he'll  turn  out  a  muff,"  he  said,  and 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO   THE  WORLD.  45 

flung  out  of  the  room,  with  another  intimation  that 
the  copy  must  be  cut  down. 

The  evening  wore  on.  Protheroe  had  half  a  dozen 
things  to  do  at  once,  and  did  them. 

Telegraph  boys  were  dropping  the  beginning  of 
Lord  John  Manners'  speech  through  a  grating  on  to 
the  sub-editorial  desk  long  before  he  had  reached  the 
end  of  it  at  Nottingham. 

The  sub-editor  had  to  revise  this  as  it  arrived  in 
flimsy,  and  write  a  summary  of  it  at  the  same  time. 
His  summary  was  set  before  all  the  speech  had 
reached  the  office,  which  may  seem  strange.  But 
when  Penny  cried  aloud  for  summary,  so  that  he 
might  get  that  column  off  his  hands,  Protheroe  made 
guesses  at  many  things,  and,  risking,  "the  right 
hon.  gentleman  concluded  his  speech,  which  was  at- 
tentively listened  to,  with  some  further  references  to 
current  topics,"  flung  Lord  John  to  the  boy,  who 
rushed  with  him  to  Penny,  from  whose  hand  he  was 
snatched  by  a  compositor.  Fifteen  minutes  after- 
wards Lord  John  concluded  his  speech  at  Notting- 
ham. 

About  half-past  nine  Protheroe  seized  his  hat  and 
rushed  home  for  supper.  In  the  passage  he  nearly 
knocked  himself  over  by  running  against  the  young 
man  in  the  heavy  top-coat.  Umbrage  went  out  to 
see  if  he  could  gather  any  information  about  a  prize- 
fight. John  Milton  came  in  with  a  notice  of  a  con- 
cert, which  he  stuck  conspicuously  on  the  chief 


46  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

reporter's  file.  When  the  chief  reporter  came  in,  he 
glanced  through  it  and  made  a  few  alterations,  chang- 
ing "  Mr.  Joseph  Grimes  sang  out  of  tune,"  for  in- 
stance, to  "  Mr.  Grimes,  the  favorite  vocalist,  was  in 
excellent  voice. "  The  concert  was  not  quite  over  yet, 
either ;  they  seldom  waited  for  the  end  of  anything 
on  the  Mirror. 

When  Umbrage  returned,  Billy  Kirker,  the  chief 
reporter,  was  denouncing  John  Milton  for  not  being 
able  to  tell  him  how  to  spell  "deceive." 

"What  is  the  use  of  you?"  he  asked  indignantly, 
"  if  you  can't  do  a  simple  thing  like  that?" 

"Say  'cheat,'  "  suggested  Umbrage. 

So  Kirker  wrote  "cheat."  Though  he  was  the 
chief  of  the  J/zrror's  reporting  department,  he  had 
only  Umbrage  and  John  Milton  at  present  under 
him. 

As  Kirker  sat  in  the  reporters'  room  looking  over 
his  diary,  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  he  was  an 
advertisement  for  the  Mirror,  and  if  he  paid  for  his 
velvet  coat  out  of  his  salary,  the  paper  was  in  a 
healthy  financial  condition.  He  was  tall,  twenty- 
two  years  of  age,  and  extremely  slight.  His  manner 
was  languid,  though  his  language  was  sometimes 
forcible,  but  those  who  knew  him  did  not  think  him 
mild.  This  evening  his  fingers  looked  bare  without 
the  diamond  ring  that  sometimes  adorned  them. 
This  ring,  it  was  noticed,  generally  disappeared 
about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  his  scarf-pin  fol- 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO   THE  WORLD.  47 

lowed  it  by  the  twenty-first.  With  the  beginning 
of  the  month  they  reappeared  together.  The  literary 
staff  was  paid  monthly. 

Mr.  Licquorish  looked  in  at  the  door  of  the  re- 
porters' room  to  ask  pleasantly  if  they  would  not  like 
a  fire.  Had  Protheroe  been  there  he  would  havo 
said  "No;"  but  Billy  Kirker  said  "Yes."  Mr.  Lic- 
quorish had  thought  that  Protheroe  was  there. 

This  was  the  first  fire  in  the  reporters'  room  that 
season,  and  it  smoked.  Kirker,  left  alone,  flung  up 
the  window,  and  gradually  became  aware  that  some- 
one with  a  heavy  tread  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
alley.  He  whistled  gently  in  case  it  should  be  a 
friend  of  his  own,  but,  getting  no  response,  resumed 
his  work.  Mr.  Licquorish  also  heard  the  footsteps, 
but  though  he  was  waiting  for  the  new  reporter,  he 
did  not  connect  him  with  the  man  outside. 

Rob  had  stopped  at  the  door  a  score  of  times,  and 
then  turned  away.  He  had  arrived  at  Silchester  in 
the  afternoon,  and  come  straight  to  the  Mirror  office 
to  look  at  it  Then  he  had  set  out  in  quest  of  lodg- 
ings, and,  having  got  them,  had  returned  to  the 
passage.  He  was  not  naturally  a  man  crushed  by  a 
sense  of  his  own  unworthiness,  but,  looking  up  at 
these  windows  and  at  the  shadows  that  passed  them 
every  moment,  he  felt  far  away  from  his  saw-mill. 
What  a  romance  to  him,  too,  was  in  the  glare  of  the 
gas  and  in  the  Mirror  bill  that  was  being  reduced  to 
pulp  on  the  wall  at  the  mouth  of  the  close !  It  had 


48  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

begun  to  rain  heavily,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  want  of 
an  umbrella,  never  having  possessed  one  in  Thrums. 

Fighting  down  the  emotions  that  had  mastered 
him  so  often,  he  turned  once  more  to  the  door,  and 
as  he  knocked  more  loudly  than  formerly,  a  compos- 
itor came  out,  who  told  him  what  to  do  if  he  was 
there  on  business. 

"Go  upstairs,"  he  said,  "till  you  come  to  a  door, 
and  then  kick." 

Rob  did  not  have  to  kick,  however,  for  he  met 
Mr.  Licquorish  coming  downstairs,  and  both  half 
stopped. 

"  Not  Mr.  Angus,  is  it?  "asked  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  new  reporter,  the  monosyllable  also 
telling  that  he  was  a  Scotsman  and  that  he  did  not 
feel  comfortable. 

Mr.  Licquorish  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand, 
and  took  him  into  the  editor's  room.  Rob  sat  in  a 
chair  there  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  while  his  new 
employer  spoke  kindly  to  him  about  the  work  that 
would  begin  on  the  morrow. 

"You  will  find  it  a  little  strange  at  first,"  ho  said; 
"but  Mr.  Kirker,  the  head  of  our  reporting  staff,  has 
been  instructed  to  explain  the  routine  of  the  office 
to  you,  and  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  work  well 
together." 

Rob  said  he  meant  to  do  his  best. 

"  It  is  our  desire,  Mr.  Angus,"  continued  Mr.  Lic- 
quorish, "  to  place  every  facility  before  our  staff,  and 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO   THE  WORLD.  49 

if  you  have  suggestions  to  make  at  any  time  en  any 
matter  connected  with  your  work  we  shall  be  most 
happy  to  consider  them  and  to  meet  you  in  a  cordial 
spirit." 

While  Rob  was  thanking  Mr.  Licquorish  for  his 
consideration,  Kirker  in  the  next  room  was  wonder- 
ing whether  the  new  reporter  was  to  have  half  a 
crown  a  week  less  than  his  predecessor,  who  had  be- 
gun with  six  pounds  a  month. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  us,"  Mr.  Licquorish  concluded, 
referring  to  the  novelist,  "  to  know  that  we  have  sent 
out  from  this  office  a  number  of  men  who  subsequently 
took  a  high  place  in  literature.  Perhaps  our  system 
of  encouraging  talent  by  fostering  it  has  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  this,  for  we  like  to  give  every  one 
his  opportunity  to  rise.  I  hope  the  day  will  come, 
Mr.  Angus,  when  we  shall  be  able  to  recall  with  pride 
the  fact  that  you  began  your  literary  career  on  the 
Mirror" 

Rob  said  he  hoped  so  too.  He  had,  indeed,  very 
little  doubt  of  it.  At  this  period  of  his  career  it  made 
him  turn  white  to  think  that  he  might  not  yet  be 
famous. 

"But  I  must  not  keep  you  here  any  longer,"  said 
the  editor,  rising,  "  for  you  have  had  a  weary  jour- 
ney, and  must  be  feeling  tired.  We  shall  see  you  at 
ten  o'clock  to-morrow?" 

Once  more  Rob  and  his  employer  shook  hands 

heartily. 
4 


50  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"But  I  might  introduce  you,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish, 
"to  the  reporting  room.  Mr.  Kirker,  our  chief,  is,  I 
think,  here." 

Rob  had  begun  to  descend  the  stairs,  but  he  turned 
back.  He  was  not  certain  what  you  did  when  j~ou 
were  introduced  to  any  one,  such  formalities  being 
unknown  in  Thrums ;  but  he  held  himself  in  reserve 
to  do  as  the  other  did. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Kirker,"  said  the  editor,  pushing  open 
the  door  of  the  reporting-room  with  his  foot,  "  this  is 
Mr.  Angus,  who  has  just  joined  our  literary  staff." 

Nodding  genially  to  both,  Mr.  Licquorish  darted 
out  of  the  room ;  but  before  the  door  had  finished  its 
swing,  Mr.  Kirker  was  aware  that  the  new  reporter's 
nails  had  a  rim  of  black. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  George  Frederick?"  asked 
the  chief,  after  he  had  pointed  out  to  Rob  the  only 
chair  that  such  a  stalwart  reporter  might  safely 
sit  on. 

"  He  was  very  pleasant,"  said  Rob. 

"Yes,"  said  Billy  Kirker,  thoughtfully,  "there's 
nothing  George  Frederick  wouldn't  do  for  any  one 
if  it  could  be  done  gratis." 

"And  he  struck  me  as  an  enterprising  sort  of 
man." 

"'Enterprise  without  outlay'  is  the  motto  of  this 
office,"  said  the  chief. 

"But  the  paper  seems  to  be  well  conducted,"  said 
Rob,  a  little  crestfallen. 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO   THE   WORLD.  51 

"The  worst  conducted  in  England,"  said  Kirker 
cheerfully. 

Rob  asked  how  the  Mirror  compared  with  the 
Argus. 

"  They  have  six  reporters  to  our  three,"  said  Kir- 
ker, "  but  we  do  double  work  and  beat  them." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  a  great  deal  of  rivalry  between 
the  staffs  of  the  two  papers?"  Rob  asked,  for  he  had 
read  of  such  things. 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  Kirker,  "  we  help  each  other.  For 
instance,  if  Daddy  Walsh,  the  Argus  chief,  is  drunk, 
I  help  him ;  and  if  I'm  drunk,  he  helps  me.  I'm 
going  down  to  the  Frying  Pan  to  see  him  now." 

"  The  Frying  Pan?  "echoed  Rob. 

"It's  a  literary  club,"  Kirker  explained,  "and  very 
exclusive.  If  you  come  with  me  I'll  introduce  you." 

Rob  was  somewhat  taken  aback  at  what  he  had 
heard,  but  he  wanted  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his 
fellow-workers. 

"Not  to-night,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I'd  better  be 
getting  home  now." 

Kirker  lit  another  cigarette,  and  saying  he  would 
expect  Rob  at  the  office  next  morning,  strolled  off. 
The  new  reporter  was  undecided  whether  to  follow 
him  at  once,  or  to  wait  for  Mr.  Licquorish's  reap- 
pearance. He  was  looking  round  the  office  curiously, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Kirker  put  his  head  in. 

"By  the  by,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "could  you  lend 
me  five  bob?" 


52  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  new  reporter. 

He  had  to  undo  the  string  of  his  money-bag,  but 
the  chief  was  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  smile. 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  Kirker  said  carelessly,  and 
again  withdrew. 

The  door  of  the  editor's  room  was  open  as  Rob 
passed. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  "here  are 
a  number  of  books  for  review ;  you  might  do  a  short 
notice  of  some  of  them." 

He  handed  Rob  the  two  works  that  happened  to 
lie  uppermost,  and  the  new  reporter  slipped  them 
into  his  pockets  with  a  certain  elation.  The  night 
was  dark  and  wet,  but  he  lit  his  pipe  and  hurried  up 
the  muddy  streets  to  the  single  room  that  was  now 
his  home.  Probably  his  were  the  only  lodgings  in 
his  street  that  had  not  the  portrait  of  a  young  lady 
on  the  mantelpiece.  On  his  way  he  passed  three 
noisy  young  men.  They  were  Kirker  and  the  two 
reporters  on  the  Argus  trying  which  could  fling  his 
hat  highest  in  the  rain. 

Sitting  in  his  lonely  room  Rob  examined  his  books 
with  interest.  One  of  them  was  Tennyson's  new 
volume  of  poems,  and  a  month  afterwards  the  poet 
laureate's  publishers  made  Rob  march  up  the  streets 
of  Silchester  with  his  chest  well  forward,  by  advertis- 
ing "The  Silchester  Mirror  says,  'This  admirable 
volume.'"  After  all,  the  great  delight  of  being  on 
the  press  is  that  you  can  patronize  the  Tennysons. 


ROB   GOES   OUT  INTO    THE  WORLD.  53 

Doubtless  the  poet  laureate  got  a  marked  copy  of 
Rob's  first  review  forwarded  him,  and  had  an  anxious 
moment  till  he  saw  that  it  was  favorable.  There 
had  been  a  time  when  even  John  Milton  felt  a  thrill 
pass  through  him  as  he  saw  Messrs.  Besaut  and  Rice 
boasting  that  he  thought  their  "  Chaplain  of  the 
Fleet"  a  novel  of  sustained  interest,  "which  we 
have  read  without  fatigue." 

Rob  sat  over  his  empty  grate  far  on  into  the  night, 
his  mind  in  a  jumble.  As  he  grew  more  composed 
the  Mirror  and  its  staff  sank  out  of  sight,  and  he 
was  carrying  -a  dead  child  in  his  arms  along  the 
leafy  Wunny  road.  His  mouth  twitched,  and  his 
head  drooped.  He  was  preparing  to  go  to  bed 
when  he  sat  down  again  to  look  at  the  other  book. 
It  was  a  novel  by  "  M.  "  in  one  thin  volume,  and 
Rob  thought  the  title,  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  foolish. 
He  meant  to  write  an  honest  criticism  of  it,  but 
never  having  reviewed  a  book  before,  he  rather  hoped 
that  this  would  be  a  poor  one,  which  he  could  con- 
demn brilliantly.  Poor  Rob !  he  came  to  think  more 
of  that  book  by  and  by. 

At  last  Rob  wound  up  the  big  watch  that  neigh- 
bors had  come  to  gaze  at  when  his  father  bought  it 
of  a  pedlar  forty  years  before,  and  took  off  the  old 
silver  chain  that  he  wore  round  his  neck.  He  went 
down  on  his  knees  to  say  his  prayers,  and  then,  re- 
membering that  he  had  said  them  already,  rose  up 
and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER    IV. 
"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS." 

ST.  LEONARD'S  LODGE  is  the  residence  of  Mr. 
William  Meredith,  an  ex-mayor  of  Silchester,  and 
stands  in  the  fashionable  suburb  of  the  town.  There 
was  at  one  time  considerable  intercourse  between  this 
house  and  Dome  Castle,  the  seat  of  Colonel  Abinger, 
though  they  are  five  miles  apart  and  in  different 
counties;  and  one  day,  after  Rob  had  been  on  the 
press  for  a  few  months,  two  boys  set  out  from  the 
castle  to  show  themselves  to  Nell  Meredith.  They 
could  have  reached  the  high-road  by  a  private  walk 
between  a  beech  and  an  ivy  hedge,  but  they  preferred 
to  climb  down  a  steep  path  to  the  wild  running 
Dome.  The  advantage  of  this  route  was  that  they 
risked  their  necks  by  taking  it. 

Nell,  who  did  not  expect  visitors,  was  sitting  by 
the  fire  in  her  boudoir  dreaming.  It  was  the  room 
in  which  she  and  Mary  Abinger  had  often  discussed 
such  great  questions  as  Woman,  her  Aims,  her  In- 
fluence ;  Man,  his  Instability,  his  Weakness,  his  De- 
generation ;  the  Poor,  how  are  we  to  Help  them ;  why 
Lady  Lucy  Gilding  wears  Pink  when  Blue  is  obvi- 
ously her  Color. 

Nell  was  tucked  away  into  a  soft  arm-chair,  in 
64 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  55 

which  her  father  never  saw  her  without  wondering 
that  such  a  little  thing  should  require  eighteen  yards 
for  a  dress. 

"I'm  not  so  little,"  she  would  say  on  these  occa- 
sions, and  then  Mr.  Meredith  chuckled,  for  he  knew 
that  there  were  young  men  who  considered  his  Nell 
tall  and  terrible.  He  liked  to  watch  her  sweeping 
through  a  room.  To  him  the  boudoir  was  a  sea  of 
reefs.  Nell's  dignity  when  she  was  introduced  to  a 
young  gentleman  was  another  thing  her  father  could 
never  look  upon  without  awe,  but  he  also  noticed 
that  it  soon  wore  off. 

On  the  mantelpiece  lay  a  comb  and  several  hair- 
pins. There  are  few  more  mysterious  things  than 
hairpins.  So  far  back  as  we  can  go  into  the  past  we 
see  woman  putting  up  her  hair.  It  is  said  that  mar- 
ried men  lose  their  awe  of  hairpins  and  clean  their 
pipes  with  them. 

A  pair  of  curling-tongs  had  a  chair  to  themselves 
near  Nell,  and  she  wore  a  short  blue  dressing-jacket. 
Probably  when  she  woke  from  her  reverie  she  meant 
to  do  something  to  her  brown  hair.  When  old  gen- 
tlemen called  at  the  lodge  they  frequently  told  their 
host  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  daughter;  when 
younger  gentlemen  called  they  generally  called  again, 
and  if  Nell  thought  they  admired  her  the  first  time 
she  spared  no  pains  to  make  them  admire  her  still 
more  the  next  time.  This  was  to  make  them  respect 
their  own  judgment. 


56  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

It  was  little  Will  Abinger  who  had  set  Nell 
a-dreaming,  for  from  wondering  if  he  was  home  yet 
for  the  Christmas  holidays  her  thoughts  wandered  to 
his  sister  Mary,  and  then  to  his  brother  Dick.  She 
thought  longer  of  Dick  in  his  lonely  London  cham- 
bers than  of  the  others,  and  by  and  by  she  was  saying 
to  herself  petulantly,  "  I  wish  people  would  go  dying 
and  leaving  me  money."  Mr.  Meredith,  and  still 
more  Mrs.  Meredith,  thought  that  their  only  daugh- 
ter, an  heiress,  would  be  thrown  away  on  Richard 
Abinger,  barrister-at-law,  whose  blood  was  much 
bluer  than  theirs,  but  who  was,  nevertheless,  under- 
stood to  be  as  hard  up  as  his  father. 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  two  callers  were  ushered 
into  the  drawing-room  without  Nell's  knowing  it. 
One  of  them  left  his  companion  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, and  clattered  upstairs  in  search  of  the  daughter 
of  the  house.  He  was  a  bright-faced  boy  of  thir- 
teen, with  a  passion  for  flinging  stones,  and,  of  late, 
he  had  worn  his  head  in  the  air,  not  because  he  was 
conceited,  but  that  he  might  look  with  admiration 
upon  the  face  of  the  young  gentleman  downstairs. 

Bouncing  into  the  parlor,  he  caught  sight  of  the 
object  of  his  search  before  she  could  turn  her  head. 

"I  say,  Nell,  I'm  back. " 

Miss  Meredith  jumped  from  her  chair. 

"Will!"  she  cried. 

When  the  visitor  saw  this  young  lady  coming 
toward  him  quickly,  he  knew  what  she  was  after, 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  5? 

and  tried  to  get  out  of  her  way.  But  Nell  kissed 
him. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said  indignantly,  pushing  her 
from  him. 

Will  looked  round  him  fearfully,  and  then  closed 
the  door. 

"  You  might  have  waited  till  the  door  was  shut,  at 
any  rate,"  he  grumbled.  "  It  would  have  been  a  nice 
thing  if  any  one  had  seen  you !" 

"  Why,  what  would  it  have  mattered,  you  horrid 
little  boy !"  said  Nell. 

"Little  boy!  I'm  bigger  than  you,  at  any  rate. 
As  for  its  not  mattering — but  you  don't  know  who 
is  downstairs.  The  captain " 

"  Captain !  "cried  Nell. 

She  seized  her  curling-tongs. 

"Yes,"  said  Will,  watching  the  effect  of  his  words, 
"  Greybrooke,  the  captain  of  the  school.  He  is  giv- 
ing me  a  week  just  now." 

Will  said  this  as  proudly  as  if  his  guest  was  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte,  but  Nell  laid  down  her  curling- 
irons.  The  intruder  interpreted  her  action  and 
resented  it. 

"You're  not  his  style,"  he  said;  "he  likes  bigger 
women." 

"  Oh,  does  he?"  said  Nell,  screwing  up  her  little 
Greek  nose  contemptuously. 

"He's  eighteen,"  said  Will. 

"A  mere  schoolboy." 


58  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"Why,  he  shaves. " 

"  Doesn't  the  master  whip  him  for  that?" 

"  What ?    Whip  Greybrooke !" 

Will  laughed  hysterically. 

"  You  should  just  see  him  at  breakfast  with  old 
Jerry.  Why,  I've  seen  him  myself,  when  half  a 
dozen  of  us  were  asked  to  tea  by  Mrs.  Jerry,  and 
though  we  were  frightened  to  open  our  mouths,  what 
do  you  think  Greybrooke  did?" 

"Something  silly,  I  should  say." 

"  He  asked  old  Jerry,  as  cool  as  you  like,  to  pass 
the  butter !  That's  the  sort  of  fellow  Greybrooke  is. " 

"How  is  Mary?" 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right.  No,  she  has  a  headache.  I 
say,  Greybrooke  says  Mary's  rather  slow." 

"  He  must  be  a  horror,"  said  Nell,  "  and  I  don't  see 
why  you  brought  him  here." 

"  I  thought  you  would  like  to  see  him,"  explained 
Will.  "He  made  a  hundred  and  three  against 
Rugby,  and  was  only  bowled  off  his  pads." 

"  Well,"  said  Nell,  yawning,  "  I  suppose  I  must  go 
down  and  meet  your  prodigy." 

Will,  misunderstanding,  got  between  her  and  the 
door. 

"You're  not  going  down  like  that,"  he  said,  anx- 
iously, with  a  wave  of  his  hand  that  included  the 
dressing-jacket  and  the  untidy  hair.  "  Greybrooke's 
so  particular,  and  I  told  him  you  were  a  jolly 
girl." 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  59 

"What  else  did  you  tell  him?"  asked  Nell  suspi- 
ciously. 

"Not  much,"  said  Will,  with  a  guilty  look. 

"  I  know  you  told  him  something  else?" 

"I  told  him  you — you  were  fond  of  kissing  people." 

"  Oh,  you  nasty  boy,  Will — as  if  kissing  a  child  like 
you  counted!" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Will  soothingly,  "  Greybrooke's 
not  the  fellow  to  tell  tales.  Besides,  I  know  you  girls 
can't  help  it.  Mary's  just  the  same." 

"  You  are  a  goose,  Will,  and  the  day  will  come 
when  you'll  give  anything  for  a  kiss." 

"  You've  no  right  to  bring  such  charges  against  a 
fellow,"  said  Will  indignantly,  strutting  to  the  door. 

Half-way  downstairs  he  turned  and  came  back. 

"I  say,  Nell,"  he  said,  "you — you,  when  you  come 
down,  you  won't  kiss  Greybrooke?" 

Nell  drew  herself  up  in  a  way  that  would  have 
scared  any  young  man  but  Will. 

"He's  so  awfully  particular,"  Will  continued 
apologetically. 

"  Was  it  to  tell  me  this  you  came  upstairs?" 

"No,  honor  bright,  it  wasn't.  I  only  came  up  in 
case  you  should  want  to  kiss  me,  and  to — to  have  it 
over." 

Nell  was  standing  near  Will,  and  before  he  could 
jump  back  she  slapped  his  face. 

The  snow  was  dancing  outside  in  a  light  wind 
when  Nell  sailed  into  the  drawing-room.  She  could 


GO  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

probably  still  inform  you  how  she  was  dressed,  but 
that  evening  Will  and  the  captain  could  not  tell  Mary. 
The  captain  thought  it  was  a  reddish  dress  or  else 
blue;  but  it  was  all  in  squares  like  a  draught-board, 
according  to  Will.  Forty  minutes  had  elapsed  since 
Will  visited  her  upstairs,  and  now  he  smiled  at  the 
conceit  which  made  her  think  that  the  captain  would 
succumb  to  a  pretty  frock.  Of  course  Nell  had  no 
such  thought.  She  always  dressed  carefully  because 
— well,  because  there  is  never  any  saying. 

Though  Miss  Meredith  froze  Greybrooke  with  a 
glance,  he  was  relieved  to  see  her.  Her  mother  had 
discovered  that  she  knew  the  lady  who  married  his 
brother,  and  had  asked  questions  about  the  baby.  He 
did  not  like  it.  These,  he  thought,  were  things  you 
should  pretend  not  to  know  about.  He  had  contrived 
to  keep  his  nieces  and  nephews  dark  from  the  fellows 
at  school,  though  most  of  them  would  have  been  too 
just  to  attach  any  blame  to  him.  Of  this  baby  he 
was  specially  ashamed,  because  they  had  called  it 
after  him. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  a  small,  stout  lady,  of  whose 
cleverness  her  husband  spoke  proudly  to  Nell,  but 
never  to  herself.  When  Nell  told  her  how  he  had 
bilked,  she  exclaimed,  "  Nonsense  I"  and  then  waited 
to  hear  what  else  he  had  said.  She  loved  him,  but 
probably  no  woman  can  live  with  a  man  for  many 
years  without  having  an  indulgent  contempt  for  him, 
and  wondering  how  he  is  considered  a  good  man  of 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  61 

business.  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  was  a  terribly  active 
woman,  was  glad  to  leave  the  entertainment  of  her 
visitors  to  Nell,  and  that  young  lady  began  severely 
by  asking  "  how  you  boys  mean  to  amuse  yourselves?" 

"Do  you  keep  rabbits?"  she  said  to  the  captain, 
sweetly. 

"  I  say,  Nell !"  cried  Will  warningly. 

"I  have  not  kept  rabbits,"  Greybrooke  replied, 
with  simple  dignity,  "since  I  was  a  boy." 

"I  told  you,"  said  Will,  "that  Greybrooke  was 
old — why,  he's  nearly  as  old  as  yourself.  She's  older 
than  she  looks,  you  know,  Greybrooke." 

The  captain  was  gazing  at  Nell  with  intense  ad- 
miration. As  she  raised  her  head  indignantly  he 
thought  she  was  looking  to  him  for  protection.  That 
was  a  way  Nell  had. 

"  Abinger,"  said  the  captain  sternly,  "shut  up." 

"Don't  mind  him,  Miss  Meredith,"  he  continued; 
"he  doesn't  understand  girls." 

To  think  he  understands  girls  is  the  last  affront  a 
youth  pays  them.  When  he  ceases  trying  to  reduce 
them  to  fixed  principles  he  has  come  of  age.  Nell, 
knowing  this,  felt  sorry  for  Greybrooke,  for  she  fore- 
saw what  he  would  have  to  go  through.  Her  man- 
ner to  him  underwent  such  a  change  that  he  began 
to  have  a  high  opinion  of  himself.  This  is  often 
called  falling  in  love.  Will  was  satisfied  that  his 
friend  impressed  Nell,  and  he  admired  Greybrooke's 
politeness  to  a  chit  of  a  girl,  but  he  became  restless. 


62  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

His  eyes  wandered  to  the  piano,  and  he  had  a  lurk- 
ing fear  that  Nell  would  play  something.  He  signed 
to  the  captain  to  get  up. 

"We'll  have  to  be  going  now,"  he  said  at  last; 
"good-by." 

Greybrooke  glared  at  Will,  forgetting  that  they 
had  arranged  beforehand  to  stay  as  short  a  time  as 
possible. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  other  calls  to  make?"  said 
Nell,  who  had  no  desire  to  keep  them  there  longer 
than  they  cared  to  stay. 

"Oh,  yes,  "said  Will. 

"No,"  said  the  captain,  "we  only  came  into  Sil- 
chester  with  Miss  Abinger's  message  for  you." 

"  Why,  Will !"  exclaimed  Nell,  "  you  never  gave 
me  any  message?" 

"I  forgot  what  it  was,"  Will  explained,  cheerily; 
"something  about  a  ribbon,  I  think." 

"I  did  not  hear  the  message  given,"  the  captain 
said,  in  answer  to  Nell's  look,  "but  Miss  Abinger 
had  a  headache,  and  I  think  Will  said  it  had  to  do 
with  that." 

"  Oh,  wait  a  bit,"  said  Will,  "  I  remember  some- 
thing about  it  now.  Mary  saw  something  in  a  Sil- 
chester  paper,  the  Mirror,  I  think,  that  made  her 
cry,  and  she  thinks  that  if  you  saw  it  you  would  cry 
too.  So  she  wants  you  to  look  at  it." 

"The  idea  of  Mary's  crying!"  said  Nell  indig- 
nantly. "  But  did  she  not  give  you  a  note?" 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS.1'  63 

"She  was  too  much  upset,"  said  Will,  signing  to 
the  captain  not  to  let  on  that  they  had  refused  to  wait 
for  the  note. 

"  I  wonder  what  it  can  be,"  murmured  Nell. 

She  hurried  from  the  room  to  her  father's  den,  and 
found  him  there  surrounded  by  newspapers. 

"  Is  there  anything  in  the  Mirror,  father?"  she 
asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  who  had  made  the 
same  answer  to  this  question  many  hundreds  of 
times,  "  nothing  except  depression  in  the  boot  trade." 

"  It  can't  be  that,"  said  Nell. 

"  Can't  be  what?" 

"Oh,  give  me  the  paper,"  cried  the  ex-mayor's 
daughter  impatiently. 

She  looked  hastily  up  and  down  it,  with  an  invol- 
untary glance  at  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages, 
turned  it  inside  out  and  outside  in,  and  then  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh !"  Mr.  Meredith,  who  was  too  much 
accustomed  to  his  daughter's  impulses  to  think  that 
there  was  much  wrong,  listened  patiently  while  she 
ejaculated,  "Horrid!"  "What  a  shame!"  "Oh,  I 
wish  I  was  a  man !"  and,  "  Well,  I  can't  understand 
it."  When  she  tossed  the  paper  to  the  floor,  her 
face  was  red  and  her  body  trembled  with  excite- 
ment. 

"What  is  it,  Nelly?"  asked  her  father. 

Whether  Miss  Abinger  cried  over  the  Mirror  that 
day  is  not  to  be  known,  but  there  were  indignant  tears 


64  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

in  Nell's  eyes  as  she  ran  upstairs  to  her  bedroom. 
Mr.  Meredith  took  up  the  paper  and  examined  it 
carefully  at  the  place  where  his  daughter  had  torn  it 
in  her  anger.  What  troubled  her  seemed  to  be  some- 
thing in  the  book  notices,  and  he  concluded  that  it 
must  be  a  cruel  "  slating  "  of  a  novel  in  one  volume 
called  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns."  Mr.  Meredith  remem- 
bered that  Nell  had  compelled  him  to  read  that  book 
and  to  say  that  he  liked  it. 

"That's  all,"  he  said  to  himself,  much  relieved. 

He  fancied  that  Nell,  being  a  girl,  was  distressed  to 
see  a  book  she  liked  called  "  the  sentimental  outpour- 
ings of  some  silly  girl  who  ought  to  confine  her  writ- 
ing to  copy-books. "  In  a  woman  so  much  excitement 
over  nothing  seemed  quite  a  natural  thing  to  Mr. 
Meredith.  The  sex  had  ceased  to  surprise  him. 
Having  retired  from  business,  Mr.  Meredith  now  did 
things  slowly  as  a  good  way  of  passing  the  time. 
He  had  risen  to  wealth  from  penury,  and  counted 
time  by  his  dining-room  chairs,  having  passed  through 
a  cane,  a  horsehair,  and  a  leather  period  before  arriv- 
ing at  morocco.  Mrs.  Meredith  counted  time  by  the 
death  of  her  only  son. 

It  may  be  presumed  that  Nell  would  not  have 
locked  herself  into  her  bed-room  and  cried  and 
stamped  her  feet  on  an  imaginary  critic  had  "  The 
Scorn  of  Scorns"  not  interested  her  more  than  her  fa- 
ther thought.  She  sat  down  to  write  a  note  to  Mary. 
Then  she  tore  it  up,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Mary's 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS.''  65 

elder  brother,  beginning  with  the  envelope.  She  tore 
this  up  also,  as  another  idea  came  into  her  head. 
She  nodded  several  times  to  herself  over  this  idea, 
as  a  sign  that  the  more  she  thought  of  it  the  more 
she  liked  it.  Then,  after  very  nearly  forgetting  to 
touch  her  eyes  with  something  that  made  them  look 
less  red,  she  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  Will, "  she  said,  "  have  you  seen  the  new  ponies 
papa  gave  me  on  my  birthday?" 

Will  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Come  on,  Greybrooke,"  he  cried,  making  for  the 
door. 

The  captain  hesitated. 

"  Perhaps, "  said  Nell,  with  a  glance  at  him,  "  Mr. 
Greybrooke  does  not  have  much  interest  in  horses?" 

"Doesn't  he,  just,"  said  Will;  "  why- 

" No, "said  Greybrooke;  "but  I'll  wait  here  for 
you,  Abinger." 

Will  was  staggered.  For  a  moment  the  horrible 
thought  passed  through  his  mind  that  these  girls  had 
got  hold  of  the  captain.  Then  he  remembered. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  "  Nell  won't  mind." 

But  Greybrooke  had  a  delicious  notion  that  the 
young  lady  wanted  to  see  him  by  himself,  and  Will 
had  to  go  to  the  stables  alone. 

"I  won't  be  long,"  he  said  to  Greybrooke,  apol- 
ogizing for  leaving  him  alone  with  a  girl.  "  Don't 
bother  him  too  much,"  he  whispered  to  Nell  at  the 

door. 

5 


66  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

As  soon  as  Will  had  disappeared  Nell  turned  to 
Greybrooke. 

"Mr.  Greyorooke,"  she  said,  speaking  rapidly,  in 
a  voice  so  low  that  it  was  a  compliment  to  him  in 
itself,  "  there  is  something  I  should  like  you  to  do 
for  me." 

The  captain  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  you,"  he  stam- 
mered. 

"I  want  you,"  continued  Miss  Meredith,  with  a 
most  vindictive  look  on  her  face,  "  to  find  out  for  me 
who  wrote  a  book  review  in  to-day's  Mirror,  and  to 
— to — oh,  to  thrash  him." 

"All  right,"  said  the  captain,  rising  and  looking 
for  his  hat. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Nell,  glancing  at  him  ad- 
miringly. "  The  book  is  called  '  The  Scorn  of  Scorns, ' 
and  it  is  written  by — by  a  friend  of  mine.  In  to-day's 
Mirror  it  is  called  the  most  horrid  names,  sickly  sen- 
timental, not  even  grammatical,  and  all  that." 

"  The  cads !"  cried  Greybrooke. 

"  But  the  horribly  mean,  wicked  thing  about  it," 
continued  Nell,  becoming  more  and  more  indignant 
as  she  told  her  story,  "  is  that  not  two  months  ago 
there  was  a  review  of  the  book  in  the  same  paper, 
which  said  it  was  the  most  pathetic  and  thoughtful 
and  clever  tale  that  had  ever  been  published  by  an 
anonymous  author !" 

"  It's  the  lowest  thing  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  Grey- 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  67 

brooke,  "but  these  newspaper  men  are  all  the 
same." 

"No,  they're  not,"  said  Nell  (Richard  Abinger, 
Esq.'s,  only  visible  means  of  sustenance  was  the 
press) ,  "  but  they  are  dreadfully  mean,  contemptible 
creatures  on  the  Mirror — just  reporters,  you  know." 

Greybrooke  nodded,  though  he  knew  nothing  about 
it. 

"The  first  review,"  Nell  continued,  "appeared  on 
the  third  of  October,  and  I  want  you  to  show  them 
both  to  the  editor,  and  insist  upon  knowing  the  name 
of  the  writer.  After  that  find  the  wretch  out, 
and " 

"  And  lick  him,  "said  the  captain. 

His  face  frightened  Nell. 

"  You  won't  hit  him  very  hard?"  she  asked,  ap- 
prehensively adding  as  an  afterthought,  "Perhaps 
he  is  stronger  than  you." 

Greybrooke  felt  himself  in.an  unfortunate  position. 
He  could  not  boast  before  Nell,  but  he  wished  very 
keenly  that  Will  was  there  to  boast  for  him.  Most 
of  us  have  experienced  the  sensation. 

Nell  having  undertaken  to  keep  Will  employed  un- 
til the  captain's  return,  Greybrooke  set  off  for  the 
Mirror  office  with  a  look  of  determination  on  his 
face.  He  went  into  two  shops,  the  one  a  news-shop, 
where  he  bought  a  copy  of  the  paper.  In  the  other 
he  asked  for  a  thick  stick,  having  remembered  that 
the  elegant  cane  he  carried  was  better  fitted  for  swing- 


68  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

ing  in  the  air  than  for  breaking  a  newspaper  man's 
head.  He  tried  the  stick  on  a  paling.  Greybrooke 
felt  certain  that  Miss  Meredith  was  the  novelist. 
That  was  why  he  selected  so  thick  a  weapon. 

He  marched  into  the  advertising  office,  and  de- 
manded to  see  the  editor  of  the  Mirror. 

"  'Stairs,"  said  a  clerk,  with  his  head  in  a  ledger. 
He  meant  upstairs,  and  the  squire  of  dames  took  his 
advice.  After  wandering  for  some  time  in  a  laby- 
rinth of  dark  passages,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  day 
composing-room,  in  which  half  a  dozen  silent  figures 
were  bending  over  their  cases. 

"I  want  the  editor,"  said  Greybrooke,  somewhat 
startled  by  the  sound  his  voice  made  in  the  great 
room. 

"  'Stairs,"  said  one  of  the  figures,  meaning  down- 
stairs. 

Greybrooke,  remembering  who  had  sent  him  here, 
did  not  lose  heart.  He  knocked  at  several  doors,  and 
then  pushed  them  open.  All  the  rooms  were  empty. 
Then  he  heard  a  voice  saying : 

"  Who  are  you?    What  do  you  want?" 

Mr.  Licquorish  was  the  speaker,  and  he  had  been 
peering  at  the  intruder  for  some  time  through  a  grat- 
ing in  his  door.  He  would  not  have  spoken  at  all, 
but  he  wanted  to  go  into  the  composing-room,  and 
Greybrooke  was  in  the  passage  that  led  to  it. 

"I  don't  see  you,"  said  the  captain;  "I  want  the 
editor." 


"THE  SCORN   OF  SCORNS."  69 

"I  am  the  editor,"  said  the  voice,  "but  I  can  see 
no  one  at  present  except  on  business." 

"I  am  here  on  business,"  said  Greybrooke.  "I 
want  to  thrash  one  of  your  staff." 

"  All  the  members  of  my  literary  staff  are  engaged 
at  present,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  in  a  pleasant  voice; 
"  which  one  do  you  want?" 

"  I  want  the  low  cad  who  wrote  a  review  of  a  book 
called  'The  Scorn  of  Scorns'  in  to-day's  paper." 

"  Oh !"  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"I  demand  his  name,"  cried  Greybrooke. 

The  editor  made  no  answer.  He  had  other  things 
to  do  than  to  quarrel  with  school-boys.  As  he  could 
not  get  out  he  began  a  leaderette.  The  visitor,  how- 
ever, had  discovered  the  editorial  door  now,  and  was 
shaking  it  violently. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me?"  he  cried. 

Mr.  Licquorish  thought  for  a  moment  of  calling 
down  the  speaking-tube  which  communicated  with 
the  advertisement  office,  for  a  clerk  to  come  and  take 
this  youth  away,  but  after  all  he  was  good-natured. 
He  finished  a  sentence,  and  then  opened  the  door. 
The  captain  strode  in,  but  refused  a  chair. 

"Are  you  the  author  of  the  book?"  the  editor 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Greybrooke,  "but  I  am  her  friend,  and 
I  am  here  to  thrash " 

Mr.  Licquorish  held  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  flow  of 
the  captain's  indignation.  He  could  never  under- 


70  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

stand  why  the  public  got  so  excited  over  these  little 
matters. 

"  She  is  a  Silchester  lady?"  he  asked. 

Greybrcoke  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  this.  He 
was  not  sure  whether  Nell  wanted  the  authorship 
revealed. 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,"  he  said. 
"  I  want  the  name  of  the  writer  who  has  libelled  her. " 

"  On  the  press,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish,  repeating  some 
phrases  which  he  kept  for  such  an  occasion  as  the 
present,  "  we  have  a  duty  to  the  public  to  perform. 
When  books  are  sent  us  for  review  we  never  allow 
prejudice  or  private  considerations  to  warp  our  judg- 
ment. The  Mirror  has  in  consequence  a  reputation 
for  honesty  that  some  papers  do  not  possess.  Now  I 
distinctly  remember  that  this  book,  'The  Vale  of 
Tears' " 

"  'The  Scorn  of  Scorns.' " 

"I  mean  'The  Scorn  of  Scorns,'  was  carefully 
considered  by  the  expert  to  whom  it  was  given  for 
review.  Being  honestly  of  opinion  that  the  treat- 


"  It  is  a  novel." 

"That  the  novel  is  worthless,  we  had  to  say  so. 
Had  it  been  clever,  we  should " 

"  Mr.  Licquorish  paused,  reading  in  the  other's 
face  that  there  was  something  wrong.  Greybrooke 
had  concluded  that  the  editor  had  forgotten  about 
the  first  review. 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  71 

"Can  you  show  me  a  copy  of  the  Mirror,"  the 
captain  asked,  "for  October  third?" 

Mr.  Licquorish  turned  to  the  file,  and  Greybrooke 
looked  over  his  shoulder. 

"  There  it  is !"  cried  the  captain  indignantly. 

They  read  the  original  notice  together.  It  said 
that,  if  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns"  was  written  by  a  new 
writer,  his  next  story  would  be  looked  for  with  great 
interest.  It  "could  not  refrain  from  quoting  the 
following  exquisitely  tender  passage."  It  found  the 
earlier  pages  "as  refreshing  as  a  spring  morning," 
and  the  closing  chapters  were  a  triumph  of  "  the  art 
that  conceals  art." 

"  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that?"  asked  Grey- 
brooke fiercely. 

"A  mistake,"  said  the  editor  blandly.  "Such 
things  do  happen  occasionally." 

"  You  shall  make  reparation  for  it !" 

"Hum,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"The  insult,"  cried  Greybrooke,  "must  have  been 
intentional." 

"  No.  I  fancy  the  authoress  must  be  to  blame  for 
this.  Did  she  send  a  copy  of  the  work  to  us?" 

"  I  should  think  it  very  unlikely,"  said  Greybrooke, 
fuming. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  editor,  "especially  if  she  is 
a  Silchester  lady." 

"  What  would  make  her  do  that?" 

"  It  generally  comes  about  in  this  way.     The  pub- 


72  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

lishers  send  a  copy  of  the  book  to  a  newspaper,  and 
owing  to  pressure  on  the  paper's  space  no  notice  ap- 
pears for  some  time.  The  author,  who  looks  for  it 
daily,  thinks  that  the  publishers  have  neglected  their 
duty,  and  sends  a  copy  to  the  office  himself.  The 
editor,  forgetful  that  he  has  had  a  notice  of  the  book 
lying  ready  for  printing  for  months,  gives  the  second 
copy  to  another  reviewer.  By-and-bye  the  first  review 
appears,  but  owing  to  an  oversight  the  editor  does  not 
take  note  of  it,  and  after  a  time,  unless  his  attention 
is  called  to  the  matter,  the  second  review  appears 
also.  Probably  that  is  the  explanation  in  this  case." 

"  But  such  carelessness  on  a  respectable  paper  is 
incomprehensible,"  said  the  captain. 

The  editor  was  looking  up  his  books  to  see  if  they 
shed  any  light  on  the  affair,  but  he  answered : 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  an  experience  known  to 
most  newspapers.  Ah,  I  have  it !" 

Mr.  Licquorish  read  out,  "'The  Scorn  of  Scorns,' 
received  September  1st,  reviewed  October  3d."  Sev- 
eral pages  farther  on  he  discovered,  "'The  Scorn  of 
Scorns, '  received  September  24th,  reviewed  December 
19th." 

"  You  will  find,"  he  said,  "  that  this  explains  it." 

"  I  don't  consider  the  explanation  satisfactory,"  re- 
plied the  captain,  "  and  I  insist,  first,  upon  an  apology 
in  the  paper,  and,  second,  on  getting  the  name  of  the 
writer  of  the  second  review." 

"I  am  busy  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish, 


"THE  SCORN  OF  SCORNS."  73 

opening  his  door,  "  and  what  you  ask  is  absurd.  If 
the  authoress  can  give  me  her  word  that  she  did  not 
send  the  book  and  so  bring  this  upon  herself,  we  shall 
insert  a  word  on  the  subject,  but  not  otherwise. 
Good-morning." 

"  Give  me  the  writer's  name,"  cried  the  captain. 

"  We  make  a  point  of  never  giving  names  in  that 
way,"  said  Mr.  Licquorish. 

"You  have  not  heard  the  last  of  this,"  Mr.  Grey  - 
brooke  said  from  the  doorway.  "  I  shall  make  it  my 
duty  to  ferret  out  the  coward's  name,  and " 

"  Good-morning, "  Mr.  Licquorish  repeated. 

The  captain  went  thumping  down  the  stairs,  and, 
meeting  a  printer's  devil  at  the  bottom,  cuffed  him 
soundly  because  he  was  part  of  the  Mirror. 

To  his  surprise,  Miss  Meredith's  first  remark  when 
he  returned  was : 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you  didn't  see  him !" 

She  looked  at  Greybrooke's  face,  fearing  it  might 
be  stained  with  blood,  and  when  he  told  her  the  re- 
sult of  his  inquiries  she  seemed  pleased  rather  than 
otherwise.  Nell  was  soft-hearted  after  all,  and  she 
knew  how  that  second  copy  of  the  novel  had  reached 
the  Mirror  office. 

"I  shall  find  the  fellow  out,  though,"  said  Grey- 
brooke,  grasping  his  cudgel  firmly. 

"  Why,  you  are  as  vindictive  as  if  you  had  written 
the  book  yourself,"  said  Nell. 

Greybrooke  murmured,  blushing  the  while,  that 


74  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

an  insult  to  her  hurt  him  more  than  one  offered  to 
himself.  Nell  opened  the  eyes  of  astonishment. 

"You  don't  think  I  wrote  the  book?"  she  asked; 
then  seeing  that  it  was  so  from  his  face,  added,  "  Oh, 
no,  I'm  not  clever  enough.  It  was  written  by — by 
a  friend  of  mine." 

Nell  deserves  credit  for  not  telling  Greybrooke  who 
the  friend  was,  for  that  was  a  secret.  But  there  was 
reason  to  believe  that  she  had  already  divulged  it  to 
twelve  persons  (all  in  the  strictest  confidence) .  When 
the  captain  returned  she  was  explaining  all  about  it 
by  letter  to  Richard  Abinger,  Esq.  Possibly  that 
was  why  Greybrooke  thought  she  was  not  nearly 
so  nice  to  him  now  as  she  had  been  an  hour  before. 

Will  was  unusually  quiet  when  he  and  Greybrooke 
said  adieu  to  the  whole  family  of  Merediths.  He 
was  burning  to  know  where  the  captain  had  been, 
and  also  what  Nell  called  him  back  to  say  in  such  a 
low  tone.  What  she  said  was : 

"Don't  say  anything  about  going  to  the  Mirror 
office,  Mr.  Greybrooke,  to  Miss  Abinger." 

The  captain  turned  round  to  lift  his  hat,  and  at 
the  same  time  expressed  involuntarily  a  wish  that 
Nell  could  see  him  punishing  loose  bowling. 

Mrs.  Meredith  beamed  to  him. 

"There  is  something  very  nice,"  she  said  to  Nell, 
"  about  a  polite  young  man." 

"Yes,"  murmured  her  daughter,  "and  even  if  he 
isn't  polite." 


CHAPTER  V. 

ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE. 

ON  the  morning  before  Christmas  a  murder  was 
committed  in  Silchester,  and  in  murders  there  is  "  lin- 
eage." In  the  Mirror  office  the  diary  for  the  day 
was  quickly  altered.  Kirker  set  off  cheerfully  for 
the  scene  of  the  crime,  leaving  the  banquet  in  the 
Henry  Institute  to  Tomlinson,  who  passed  on  his 
dinner  at  Dome  Castle  to  Rob,  whose  church  deco- 
rations were  taken  up  by  John  Milton. 

Christmas  Eve  was  coming  on  in  snow  when  Rob 
and  Walsh,  of  the  Argus,  set  out  for  Dome  Castle. 
Rob  disliked  doing  dinners  at  any  time,  partly  be- 
cause he  had  not  a  dress  suit.  The  dinner  was  an 
annual  one  given  by  Will's  father  to  his  tenants,  and 
.reporters  were  asked  because  the  colonel  made  a 
speech.  His  neighbors,  when  they  did  likewise,  sent 
reports  of  their  own  speeches  (which  they  seemed  to 
like)  to  the  papers ;  and  some  of  them,  having  called 
themselves  eloquent  and  justly  popular,  scored  the 
compliments  out,  yet  in  such  a  way  that  the  editor 
would  still  be  able  to  read  them,  and  print  them  if 
he  thought  fit.  Rob  did  not  look  forward  to  Colonel 
Abinger's  reception  of  him,  for  they  had  met  some 

months  before,  and  called  each  other  names. 
75 


76  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

It  was  one  day  soon  after  Rob  reached  Silchester. 
He  had  gone  a-fishing  in  the  Dome  and  climbed  un- 
consciously into  preserved  waters.  As  his  creel  grew 
heavier  his  back  straightened ;  not  until  he  returned 
home  did  the  scenery  impress  him.  He  had  just 
struck  a  fine  fish,  when  a  soldierly  looking  man  at 
the  top  of  the  steep  bank  caught  sight  of  him. 

"Hie,  you  sir!"  shouted  the  onlooker.  Whin- 
went  the  line — there  is  no  music  like  it.  Rob  was 
knee-deep  in  water.  "  You  fellow !"  cried  the  other, 
brandishing  his  cane,  "  are  you  aware  that  this  wa- 
ter is  preserved?"  Rob  had  no  time  for  talk.  The 
colonel  sought  to  attract  his  attention  by  flinging  a 
pebble.  "  Don't  do  that !"  cried  Rob  fiercely. 

Away  went  the  fish.  Away  went  Rob  after  it. 
Colonel  Abinger's  face  was  red  as  he  clambered  down 
the  bank.  "  I  shall  prosecute  you,"  he  shouted.  "  He 
is  gone  to  the  bottom ;  fling  in  a  stone !"  cried  Rob. 
Just  then  the  fish  showed  its  yellow  belly  and  darted 
off  again.  Rob  let  out  more  line.  "  No,  no,"  shouted 
the  colonel,  who  fished  himself,  "  you  lose  him  if  he 
gets  to  the  other  side ;  strike,  man,  strike !"  The  line 
tightened,  the  rod  bent — a  glorious  sight !  "  Force 
him  up  stream,"  cried  the  colonel,  rolling  over  bowl- 
ders to  assist.  "Now,  you  have  him.  Bring  him 
in.  Where  is  your  landing-net?"  "I  haven't  one," 
cried  Rob;  "take  him  in  your  hands."  The  colonel 
stooped  to  grasp  the  fish  and  missed  it.  "  Bungler  I" 
screamed  Rob.  This  was  too  much.  "  Give  me  your 


ROB   MARCHES   TO   HIS   FATE.  77 

name  and  address,"  said  Colonel  Abinger,  rising  to 
his  feet;  "you  are  a  poacher."  Rob  paid  no  atten- 
tion. There  was  a  struggle.  Rob  did  not  realize 
that  he  had  pushed  his  assailant  over  a  rock  until  the 
fish  was  landed.  Then  he  apologized,  offered  all 
his  fish  in  lieu  of  his  name  and  address,  retired  coolly 
so  long  as  the  furious  soldier  was  in  sight,  and  as 
soon  as  he  turned  a  corner  disappeared  rapidly.  He 
could  not  feel  that  this  was  the  best  introduction  to 
the  man  with  whom  he  was  now  on  his  way  to 
dine. 

The  reporter  whose  long  strides  made  Walsh  trot 
as  they  hurried  to  Dome  Castle  was  not  quite  the 
Rob  of  three  months  before.  Now  he  knew  how  a 
third-rate  newspaper  is  conducted,  and  the  capacity 
for  wonder  had  gone  from  him.  He  was  in  danger 
of  thinking  that  the  journalist's  art  is  to  write  read- 
ably, authoritatively,  and  always  in  three  paragraphs 
on  a  subject  he  knows  nothing  about.  Rob  had 
written  many  leaders,  and  followed  readers  through 
the  streets  wondering  if  they  liked  them  Once  he 
had  gone  with  three  others  to  report  a  bishop's  ser- 
mon. A  curate  appeared  instead,  and  when  the  re- 
porters saw  him  they  shut  their  note-books  and 
marched  blandly  out  of  the  cathedral.  A  public 
speaker  had  tried  to  bribe  Rob  with  two  half-crowns, 
and  it  is  still  told  in  Silchester  how  the  wrathful 
Scotsman  tore  his  benefactor  out  of  the  carriage  he 
had  just  stepped  into,  and,  lifting  him  on  high,  looked 


78  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

around  to  consider  against  which  stone  wall  he  should 
hurl  him.  He  had  discovered  that  on  the  first  of  the 
month  Mr.  Licquorish  could  not  help  respecting  his 
staff,  because  on  that  day  he  paid  them.  Socially 
Rob  had  acquired  little.  Protheroe  had  introduced 
him  to  a  pleasant  family,  but  he  had  sat  silent  in  a 
corner,  and  they  told  the  sub-editor  not  to  bring  him 
back.  Most  of  the  literary  staff  were  youths  trying 
to  be  Bohemians,  who  liked  to  feel  themselves  sink- 
ing, and  they  never  scaled  the  reserve  which  walled 
Rob  round.  He  had  taken  a  sitting,  however,  in  the 
Scotch  church,  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  minister, 
who  said,  "  But  I  thought  you  were  a  reporter?"  as 
if  there  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere. 

Walsh  could  tell  Rob  little  of  Colonel  Abinger. 
He  was  a  brave  soldier,  and  for  many  years  had  been 
a  widower.  His  elder  son  was  a  barrister  in  London, 
whom  Silchester  had  almost  forgotten,  and  Walsh 
fancied  there  was  some  story  about  the  daughter's 
being  engaged  to  a  baronet.  There  was  also  a  boy, 
who  had  the  other  day  brought  the  captain  of  his 
school  to  a  Silchester  football  ground  to  show  the  club 
how  to  take  a  drop-kick. 

"  Does  the  colonel  fish?"  asked  Rob,  who  would, 
however,  have  preferred  to  know  if  the  colonel  had  a 
good  memory  for  faces. 

"  He  is  a  famous  angler,"  said  Walsh;  " indeed,  I 
have  been  told  that  his  bursts  of  passion  are  over  in 
five  minutes,  except  when  he  catches  a  poacher." 


ROB  MARCHES    TO   HIS  FATE.  79 

Rob  winced,  for  Walsh  did  not  know  of  the  fishing 
episode. 

"  His  temper, "  continued  Walsh,  "  is  such  that  his 
male  servants  are  said  never  to  know  whether  he  will 
give  them  a  shilling  or  a  whirl  of  his  cane — until 
they  get  it.  The  gardener  takes  a  look  at  him  from 
behind  a  tree  before  venturing  to  address  him.  I 
suppose  his  poverty  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  for  the 
estate  is  mortgaged  heavily,  and  he  has  had  to  cut 
down  trees,  and  even  to  sell  his  horses.  The  tenants 
seem  to  like  him,  though,  and  if  they  dared  they 
would  tell  him  not  to  think  himself  bound  to  give 
them  this  annual  dinner.  There  are  numberless 
stories  of  his  fierce  temper,  and  as  many  of  his  ex- 
travagant kindness.  According  to  his  servants,  he 
once  emptied  his  pocket  to  a  beggar  at  a  railway 
station,  and  then  discovered  that  he  had  no  money 
for  his  own  ticket.  As  for  the  ne'er-do-weels,  theif 
importuning  makes  him  rage,  but  they  know  he  will 
fling  something  in  the  end  if  they  expose  their  rags 
sufficiently." 

"  So,"  said  Rob,  who  did  not  want  to  like  the  col- 
onel, "  he  would  not  trouble  about  them  if  they  kept 
their  misery  to  themselves.  That  kind  of  man  is 
more  likely  to  be  a  philanthropist  in  your  country  than 
in  mine." 

"  Keep  that  for  a  Burns  dinner,"  suggested  Walsh. 

Rob  heard  now  how  Tomlinson  came  to  be  nick- 
named Umbrage. 


80  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  He  was  sub-editing  one  night,"  Walsh  explained, 
"  during  the  time  of  an  African  war,  and  things  were 
going  so  smoothly  that  he  and  Penny  were  chatting 
amicably  together  about  the  advantage  of  having 
a  few  Latin  phrases  in  a  leader,  such  as  dolce  far 
niente,  or  cela  va  sans  dire " 

"I  can  believe  that,"  said  Rob,  "of  Penny  cer- 
tainly." 

"  Well,  in  the  middle  of  the  discussion  an  impor- 
tant war  telegram  arrived,  to  the  not  unnatural  dis- 
gust of  both.  As  is  often  the  case,  the  message  was 
misspelled,  and  barely  decipherable,  and  one  part  of  it 
puzzled  Tomlinson  a  good  deal.  It  read :  'Zulus  have 
taken  Umbrage;  English  forces  had  to  retreat.' 
Tomlinson  searched  the  map  in  vain  for  Umbrage, 
which  the  Zulus  had  taken ;  and  Penny,  being  in  a 
hurry,  was  sure  it  was  a  fortress.  So  they  risked  it, 
and  next  morning  the  chief  lines  in  the  Mirror  con- 
tents bill  were:  'LATEST  NEWS  OF  THE  WAR;  CAP- 
TURE OF  UMBRAGE  BY  THE  ZULUS.'" 

By  this  time  the  reporters  had  passed  into  the 
grounds  of  the  castle,  and,  being  late,  were  hurry- 
ing up  the  grand  avenue.  It  was  the  hour  and  the 
season  when  night  comes  on  so  sharply  that  its 
shadow  may  be  seen  trailing  the  earth  as  a  breeze 
runs  along  a  field  of  corn.  Heard  from  a  height  the 
roar  of  the  Dome  among  rocks  might  have  been  the 
rustle  of  the  surrounding  trees  in  June ;  so  men  and 
women  who  grow  old  together  sometimes  lend  each 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  81 

other  a  voice.  Walsh,  seeing  his  opportunity  in 
Rob's  silence,  began  to  speak  of  himself.  He  told 
how  his  first  press- work  had  been  a  series  of  letters 
he  had  written  when  at  school,  and  contributed  to  a 
local  paper  under  the  signatures  of  "  Paterfamilias  " 
and  "  An  Indignant  Ratepayer. "  Rob  scarcely  heard. 
The  bare,  romantic  scenery  impressed  him,  and  the 
snow  in  his  face  was  like  a  whiff  of  Thrums.  He 
was  dreaming,  but  not  of  the  reception  he  might  get 
at  the  castle,  when  the  clatter  of  horses  awoke  him. 

"There  is  a  machine  behind  us,"  he  said,  though 
he  would  have  written  trap. 

A  brougham  lumbered  into  sight.  As  its  lamps 
flashed  on  the  pedestrians,  the  coachman  jerked  his 
horses  to  the  side,  and  Rob  had  a  glimpse  of  the 
carriage's  occupant.  The  brougham  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  traveller,  opening 
his  window,  and  addressing  Rob,  "  but  in  the  dark- 
ness I  mistook  you  for  Colonel  Abinger." 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  the  castle,"  said  Walsh, 
stepping  forward. 

"Ah,  then, "said  the  stranger,  " perhaps  you  will 
give  me  your  company  for  the  short  distance  we  have 
still  to  go?" 

There  was  a  fine  courtesy  in  his  manner  that  made 
the  reporters  feel  their  own  deficiencies,  yet  Rob 
thought  the  stranger  repented  his  offer  as  soon  as  it 
was  made.  Walsh  had  his  hand  on  the  door,  but 

Rob  said : 
6 


82  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  We  are  going  to  Dome  Castle  as  reporters." 

"Oh!"  said  the  stranger.  Then  he  bowed  gra- 
ciously, and  pulled  up  the  window.  The  carriage 
rumbled  on,  leaving  the  reporters  looking  at  each 
other.  Rob  laughed.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  advantage  a  handsome  man  has  over  a  plain  one 
had  struck  him.  He  had  only  once  seen  such  a  face 
before,  and  that  was  in  marble  in  the  Silchester  Art 
Museum.  This  man  looked  thirty  years  of  age,  but 
there  was  not  a  line  on  his  broad,  white  brow.  The 
face  was  magnificently  classic,  from  the  strong  Ro- 
man nose  to  the  firm  chin.  The  eyes,  too  beautiful 
almost  for  his  sex,  were  brown  and  wistful,  of  the 
kind  that  droop  in  disappointment  oftener  than  they 
blaze  with  anger.  All  the  hair  on  his  face  was  a 
heavy  drooping  mustache  that  almost  hid  his  mouth. 

Walsh  shook  his  fist  at  this  insult  to  the  Press. 

"  It  is  the  baronet  I  spoke  of  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I 
forget  who  he  is ;  indeed,  I  rather  think  he  travelled 
incognito  when  he  was  here  last.  I  don't  under- 
stand what  he  is  doing  here." 

"  Why,  I  should  say  this  is  just  the  place  where  he 
would  be  if  he  is  to  marry  Miss  Abinger." 

"That  was  an  old  story,"  said  Walsh.  "If  there 
over  was  an  engagement  it  was  broken  off.  Besides, 
if  he  had  been  expected  we  should  have  known  of  it 
at  the  Argus." 

Walsh  was  right.  Sir  Clement  Dowton  was  not 
expected  at  Dome  Castle,  and,  like  Rob,  he  was  not 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  83 

even  certain  that  he  would  be  welcome.  As  he  drew 
near  his  destination  his  hands  fidgeted  with  the  win- 
dow strap,  yet  there  was  an  unaccountable  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  Had  there  been  any  onlookers  they 
would  have  been  surprised  to  see  that  all  at  once  the 
baronet's  sense  of  humor  seemed  to  overcome  his 
fears,  and,  instead  of  quaking,  he  laughed  heartily. 
Sir  Clement  was  evidently  one  of  the  men  who  carry 
their  joke  about  with  them. 

This  unexpected  guest. did  Rob  one  good  turn. 
When  the  colonel  saw  Sir  Clement  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment  as  if  not  certain  how  to  greet  him.  Then 
the  baronet,  who  was  effusive,  murmured  that  he 
had  something  to  say  to  him,  and  Colonel  Abinger's 
face  cleared.  He  did  Sir  Clement  the  unusual  honor 
of  accompanying  him  upstairs  himself,  and  so  Rob 
got  the  seat  assigned  to  him  at  the  dinner-table  with- 
out having  to  meet  his  host  in  the  face.  The  butler 
marched  him  down  a  long  table  with  a  twist  in  it, 
and  placed  him  under  arrest,  as  it  were,  in  a  chair 
from  which  he  saw  only  a  few  of  the  company.  The 
dinner  had  already  begun,  but  the  first  thing  he 
realized  as  he  took  his  seat  was  that  there  was  a  lady 
on  each  side  of  him,  and  a  table-napkin  in  front. 
He  was  not  sure  if  he  was  expected  to  address  the 
ladies,  and  he  was  still  less  certain  about  the  table- 
napkin.  Of  such  things  he  had  read,  and  he  had 
even  tried  to  be  prepared  for  them.  Rob  looked  ner- 
vously at  the  napkin,  and  then  took  a  covert  glance 


84  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

along  the  table.  There  was  not  a  napkin  in  sight 
except  one  which  a  farmer  had  tied  round  his  neck. 
Rob's  fingers  wanted  to  leave  the  napkin  alone,  but 
by  an  effort  he  forced  them  toward  it.  All  this  time 
his  face  was  a  blank,  but  the  internal  struggle  was 
sharp.  He  took  hold  of  the  napkin,  however,  and 
spread  it  on  his  knees.  It  fell  to  the  floor  immedi- 
ately afterward,  but  he  disregarded  that.  It  was  no 
longer  staring  at  him  from  the  table,  and  with  a 
heavy  sigh  of  relief  he  began  to  feel  more  at  ease. 
There  is  nothing  like  burying  our  bogies. 

His  position  prevented  Rob's  seeing  either  the  colo- 
nel at  the  head  of  the  table  or  Miss  Abinger  at  the 
foot  of  it,  and  even  Walsh  was  hidden  from  view. 
But  his  right-hand  neighbor  was  a  local  doctor's  wife, 
whom  the  colonel  had  wanted  to  honor  without  hon- 
oring too  much,  and  she  gave  him  some  information. 
Rob  was  relieved  to  hear  her  address  him,  and  she 
was  interested  in  a  tame  Scotsman. 

"  I  was  once  in  the  far  north  myself,"  she  said,  "  as 
far  as  Orkney.  We  were  nearly  drowned  in  crossing 
that  dreadful  sea  between  it  and  the  mainland.  The 
Solway  Firth,  is  it?" 

Rob  thought  for  a  moment  of  explaining  what  sea 
it  is,  and  then  he  thought,  why  should  he? 

"Yes,  the  Solway  Firth,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  rather  an  undertaking,"  she  pursued,  "  but 
though  we  were  among  the  mountains  for  days,  we 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  85 

never  encountered  any  of  those  robber  chieftains  one 
reads  about — caterans,  I  think,  you  call  them?" 

"You  were  very  lucky,"  said  Rob. 

"Were  we  not?  But,  you  know,  we  took  such 
precautions.  There  was  quite  a  party  of  us,  includ- 
ing my  father,  who  has  travelled  a  great  deal,  and 
all  the  gentlemen  wore  kilts.  My  father  said  it  was 
always  prudent  to  do  in  Rome  as  the  Romans  do." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Rob,  "that  in  that  way 
you  escaped  the  caterans.  They  are  very  open  to 
flattery." 

"  So  my  father  said.  We  also  found  that  we  could 
make  ourselves  understood  by  saying 'whatever,'  and 
remembering  to  call  the  men  'she'  and  the  women 
'he.'  What  a  funny  custom  that  is !" 

"  We  can't  get  out  of  it,"  said  Rob. 

"There  is  one  thing,"  the  lady  continued,  "that 
you  can  tell  me.  I  have  been  told  that  in  winter  the 
wild  boars  take  refuge  in  the  streets  of  Inverness, 
and  that  there  are  sometimes  very  exciting  hunts 
after  them?" 

"  That  is  only  when  they  run  away  with  children, 
Rob  explained.  "  Then  the  natives  go  out  in  large 
bodies  and  shoot  them  with  claymores.  It  is  a  most 
exciting  scene." 

When  the  doctor's  wife  learned  that  this  was  Rob's 
first  visit  to  the  castle,  she  told  him  at  once  that  she 
was  there  frequently.  It  escaped  his  notice  that  she 


86  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

paused  here  and  awaited  the  effect.  She  was  not 
given  to  pausing. 

"My  husband,"  she  said,  "attended  on  Lady  Lou- 
isa during  her  last  illness — quite  ten  years  ago.  I 
was  married  very  young,"  she  added  hurriedly. 

Rob  was  very  nearly  saying  he  saw  that.  The 
words  were  in  his  mouth,  when  he  hesitated,  reflect- 
ing that  it  was  not  worth  while.  This  is  only 
noticeable  as  showing  that  he  missed  his  first  com- 
pliment. 

"  Lady  Louisa?"  he  repeated  instead. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  colonel  married  one  of  Lord  Tarling- 
ton's  daughters.  There  were  seven  of  them,  you 
know,  and  no  sons,  and  when  the  youngest  was  born 
it  was  said  that  a  friend  of  his  lordship  sent  him  a 
copy  of  Wordsworth,  with  the  page  turned  down  at 
the  poem,  'We  are  Seven' — a  lady  friend,  I  believe." 

"  Is  Miss  Abinger  like  the  colonel?"  asked  Rob, 
who  had  heard  it  said  that  she  was  beautiful,  and 
could  not  help  taking  an  interest  in  her  in  consequence. 

"You  have  not  seen  Miss  Abinger?"  asked  the 
doctor's  wife.  "  Ah,  you  came  late,  and  that  vulgar- 
looking  farmer  hides  her  altogether.  She  is  a  lovely 
girl,  but " 

Rob's  companion  pursed  her  lips. 

"She  is  so  cold  and  proud,"  she  added. 

"  As  proud  as  her  father?"  Rob  asked,  aghast. 

"Oh,  the  colonel  is  humility  itself  beside  her. 
He  freezes  at  times,  but  she  never  thaws." 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE,  87 

Rob  sighed  involuntarily.  He  was  not  aware  that 
his  acquaintances  spoke  in  a  similar  way  of  him. 
His  eyes  wandered  up  the  table  till  they  rested  of 
their  own  accord  on  a  pretty  girl  in  blue.  At  that 
moment  she  was  telling  Greybrooke  that  he  could  call 
her  Nell,  because  "  Miss "  Meredith  sounded  like  a 
reproach. 

The  reporter  looked  at  Nell  with  satisfaction,  and 
the  doctor's  wife  followed  his  thoughts  so  accurately 
that,  before  she  could  check  herself,  she  said,  "  Do 
you  think  so?" 

Then  Rob  started,  which  confused  both  of  them, 
and  for  the  remainder  of  the  dinner  the  loquacious 
lady  seemed  to  take  less  interest  in  him,  he  could  not 
understand  why.  Flung  upon  his  own  resources,  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  spoken  to  the  lady  on 
his  other  side.  Had  Rob  only  known  it,  she  felt 
much  more  uncomfortable  in  that  great  dining-room 
than  he  did.  No  one  was  speaking  to  her,  and  she 
passed  the  time  between  the  courses  breaking  her 
bread  to  pieces  and  eating  it  slowly,  crumb  by  crumb. 
Rob  thought  of  something  to  say  to  her,  but  when  he 
tried  the  words  over  in  his  own  mind  they  seemed 
so  little  worth  saying  that  he  had  to  think  again. 
He  found  himself  counting  the  crumbs,  and  then  it 
struck  him  that  he  might  ask  her  if  she  would  like 
any  salt.  He  did  so,  but  she  thought  he  asked  for 
salt,  and  passed  the  salt-cellar  to  him,  whereupon 
Rob,  as  the  simplest  way  to  get  out  of  it,  helped 


88  WHEN  A   MAX'S  SINGLE. 

himself  to  more  salt,  though  he  did  not  need  it.  The 
intercourse  thus  auspiciously  begun  went  no  farther, 
and  they  never  met  again.  It  might  have  been  a 
romance. 

The  colonel  had  not  quite  finished  his  speech,  which 
was  to  the  effect  that  so  long  as  his  tenants  looked 
up  to  him  as  some  one  superior  to  themselves  they 
would  find  him  an  indulgent  landlord,  when  the  tread 
of  feet  was  heard  outside,  and  then  the  music  of  the 
waits.  The  colonel  frowned  and  raised  his  voice, 
but  his  guests  caught  themselves  tittering,  and  read 
their  host's  rage  in  his  darkening  face.  Forgetting 
that  the  waits  were  there  by  his  own  invitation,  he 
signed  to  James,  the  butler,  to  rush  out  and  mow 
them  down.  James  did  not  interpret  the  message 
so,  but  for  the  moment  it  was  what  his  master  meant. 

While  the  colonel  was  hesitating  whether  to  go 
on,  Rob  saw  Nell  nod  encouragingly  to  Greybrooke. 
He  left  his  seat,  and,  before  any  one  knew  what  he 
was  about,  had  flung  open  one  of  the  windows.  The 
room  filled  at  once  with  music,  and,  as  if  by  common 
consent,  the  table  was  deserted.  Will  opened  the 
remaining  windows,  and  the  waits,  who  had  been 
singing  to  shadows  on  the  white  blinds,  all  at  once 
found  a  crowded  audience.  Rob  hardly  realized  what 
it  meant,  for  he  had  never  heard  the  waits  before. 

It  was  a  scene  that  would  have  silenced  a  school- 
girl. The  night  was  so  clear  that  beyond  the  lawn 
where  the  singers  were  grouped  the  brittle  trees 


ROB  MARCHES   TO   HIS  FATE.  89 

showed  in  every  twig.  No  snow  was  falling,  and  so. 
monotonous  was  the  break  of  the  river  that  the  ear 
would  only  have  noticed  it  had  it  stopped.  The 
moon  stood  overhead  like  a  frozen  round  of  snow. 

Looking  over  the  heads  of  those  who  had  gathered 
at  one  of  the  windows,  Rob  saw  first  Will  Abinger 
and  then  the  form  of  a  girl  cross  to  the  singers. 
Some  one  followed  her  with  a  cloak.  From  the 
French  windows  steps  dropped  to  the  lawn.  A  lady 
beside  Rob  shivered  and  retired  to  the  fireside,  but 
Nell  whispered  to  Greybrooke  that  she  must  run 
after  Mary.  Several  others  followed  her  down  the 
steps. 

Rob,  looking  round  for  Walsh,  saw  him  in  conver- 
sation with  the  colonel.  Probably  he  was  taking 
down  the  remainder  of  the  speech.  Then  a  lady's 
voice  said :  "  Who  is  that  magnificent  young  man?" 

The  sentence  ended  "with  the  hob-nailed  boots," 
and  the  reference  was  to  Rob,  but  he  only  caught  the 
first  words.  He  thought  the  baronet  was  spoken  of, 
and  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  not  appeared 
at  the  dinner-table.  As  Sir  Clement  entered  the 
room  at  that  moment  in  evening  dress,  making  most 
of  those  who  surrounded  him  look  mean  by  compari- 
son, Rob  never  learned  who  the  magnificent  young 
man  was. 

Sir  Clement's  entrance  was  something  of  a  sensa- 
tion, and  Rob  saw  several  ladies  raise  their  eyebrows. 
All  seemed  to  know  him  by  name,  and  some  person- 


90  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

ally.  The  baronet's  nervousness  had  evidently  passed 
away,  for  he  bowed  and  smiled  to  every  one,  claim- 
ing some  burly  farmers  as  old  acquaintances,  though 
he  had  never  seen  them  before.  His  host  and  he 
seemed  already  on  the  most  cordial  terms,  but  the 
colonel  was  one  of  the  few  persons  in  the  room  who 
was  not  looking  for  Miss  Abinger.  At  last  Sir 
Clement  asked  for  her. 

"I  believe,"  said  some  one  in  answer  to  the  colo- 
nel's inquiring  glance  round  the  room,  "  that  Miss 
Abinger  is  speaking  with  the  waits." 

"Perhaps  I  shall  see  her,"  said  Dowton,  stepping 
out  at  one  of  the  windows. 

Colonel  Abinger  followed  him  to  the  window,  but 
no  farther,  and  at  that  moment  a  tall  figure  on  the 
snowy  lawn  crossed  his  line  of  vision.  It  was  Rob, 
who,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  himself,  had 
wandered  into  the  open.  His  back  was  toward  the 
colonel,  and  something  in  his  walk  recalled  to  that 
choleric  officer  the  angler  whom  he  had  encountered 
on  the  Dome. 

"  That  is  the  man — I  was  sure  I  knew  the  face, " 
said  Colonel  Abinger.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper  to 
himself,  but  his  hands  closed  with  a  snap. 

Unconscious  of  all  this,  Rob  strolled  on  till  he 
found  a  path  that  took  him  round  the  castle.  Sud- 
denly he  caught  sight  of  a  blue  dress,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  girl's  voice  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  I  am  afraid 
it  is  lost!" 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  91 

The  speaker  bent,  as  if  to  look  for  something  in  the 
snow,  and  Rob  blundered  up  to  her.  "  If  you  have 
lost  anything,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  can  find  it." 

Rob  had  matches  in  his  pocket,  and  he  struck  one 
of  them.  Then,  to  his  surprise,  he  noticed  that  Nell 
was  not  alone.  Greybrooke  was  with  her,  and  he 
was  looking  foolish. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Nell  sweetly;  "it 
is  a — a  bracelet." 

Rob  went  down  on  his  knees  to  look  for  the  bracelet, 
but  it  surprised  him  a  little  that  Greybrooke  did  not 
follow  his  example.  If  he  had  looked  up,  he  would 
have  seen  that  the  captain  was  gazing  at  Nell  in 
amazement. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  lost, "  Nell  repeated,  "  or  perhaps 
I  dropped  it  in  the  dining-room." 

Greybrooke's  wonder  was  now  lost  in  a  grin,  for 
Nell  had  lost  nothing,  unless  perhaps  for  the  moment 
her  sense  of  what  was  fit  and  proper.  The  captain 
had  followed  her  on  to  the  lawn,  and  persuaded  her 
to  come  and  look  down  upon  the  river  from  the  top 
of  the  cliff.  She  had  done  so,  she  told  herself,  be- 
cause he  was  a  boy ;  but  he  had  wanted  her  to  do  it 
because  she  was  a  woman.  On  the  very  spot  where 
Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at-law,  had  said  some- 
thing to  her  that  Nell  would  never  forget,  the  captain 
had  presumptuously  kissed  her  hand,  and  Nell  had 
allowed  him,  because  after  all  it  was  soon  over.  It 
was  at  that  very  moment  that  Rob  came  in  sight, 


92  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

and  Nell  thought  she  was  justified  in  deceiving  him. 
Rob  would  have  remained  a  long  time  on  the  snow 
if  she  had  not  had  a  heart. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  did  drop  it  in  the  dining-room," 
said  Nell,  in  such  a  tone  of  conviction  that  Rob  rose 
to  his  feet.  His  knees  were  white  in  her  service,  and 
Nell  felt  that  she  liked  this  young  man. 

"  I  am  so  sony  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  — Mr.  — " 
began  the  young  lady. 

"  My  name  is  Angus,"  said  Rob;  "  I  am  a  reporter 
on  the  Silchester  Mirror." 

Greybrooke  started,  and  Nell  drew  back  in  horror, 
but  the  next  second  she  was  smiling.  Rob  thought 
it  was  kindliness  that  made  her  do  it,  but  it  was 
really  a  smile  of  triumph.  She  felt  that  she  was  on 
the  point  of  making  a  discovery  at  last.  Greybrooke 
would  have  blurted  out  a  question,  but  Nell  stopped 
him. 

"  Get  me  a  wrap  of  some  kind,  Mr.  Greybrooke, "  she 
said,  with  such  sweet  imperiousness  that  the  captain 
went  without  a  word.  Half-way  he  stopped  to  call 
himself  a  fool,  for  he  had  remembered  all  at  once 
about  Raleigh  and  his  cloak,  and  seen  how  he  might 
have  adapted  that  incident  to  his  advantage  by  offer- 
ing to  put  his  own  coat  round  Nell's  shoulders. 

It  was  well  that  Greybrooke  did  not  look  back,  for 
he  would  have  seen  Miss  Meredith  take  Rob's  arm — 
which  made  Rob  start — and  lead  him  in  the  direction 
in  which  Miss  Abinger  was  supposed  to  have  gone. 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  93 

"The  literary  life  must  be  delightful,"  said  artful 
Nell,  looking  up  into  her  companion's  face. 

Rob  appreciated  the  flattery,  but  his  pride  made 
him  say  that  the  literary  life  was  not  the  reporter's. 

"I  always  read  the  Mirror,"  continued  Nell,  on 
whom  the  moon  was  having  a  bad  effect  to-night, 
"  and  often  I  wonder  who  writes  the  articles.  There 
was  a  book  review  in  it  a  few  days  ago  that  I — I 
liked  very  much." 

"Do  you  remember  what  the  book  was?"  asked 
Rob,  jumping  into  the  pit. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Nell,  putting  her  head  to  the 
side,  "it  was — yes,  it  was  a  novel  called — called  'The 
Scorn  of  Scorns.'  " 

Rob's  good  angel  was  very  near  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, but  not  near  enough  to  put  her  palm  over  his 
mouth. 

"  That  review  was  mine,"  said  Rob,  with  uncalled- 
for  satisfaction. 

"Was  it?"  cried  his  companion,  pulling  away  her 
arm  viciously. 

The  path  had  taken  them  to  the  top  of  the  pile  of 
rocks,  from  which  it  is  a  sheer  descent  of  a  hundred 
feet  to  the  Dome.  At  this  point  the  river  is  joined 
by  a  smaller  but  not  less  noisy  stream,  which  rushes 
at  it  at  right  angles.  Two  of  the  castle  walls  rise 
up  here  as  if  part  of  the  cliff,  and  though  the  walk 
goes  round  them,  they  seem  to  the  angler  looking  up 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  Dome  to  be  part  of  the 


94  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

rock.  From  the  windows  that  look  to  the  west  and 
north  one  can  see  down  into  the  black  waters,  and 
hear  the  Ferret,  as  the  smaller  stream  is  called,  fling 
itself  over  jagged  bowlders  into  the  Dome. 

The  ravine  coming  upon  him  suddenly  took,  away 
Rob's  breath,  and  he  hardly  felt  Nell  snatch  away 
her  arm.  She  stood  back,  undecided  what  to  do  for 
a  moment,  and  they  were  separated  by  a  few  yards. 
Then  Rob  heard  a  man's  voice,  soft  and  low,  but 
passionate.  He  knew  it  to  be  Sir  Clement  Dowton's, 
though  he  lost  the  words.  A  girl's  voice  answered, 
however — a  voice  so  exquisitely  modulated,  so  clear 
and  pure,  that  Rob  trembled  with  delight  in  it.  This 
is  what  it  said : 

"  No,  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  I  bear  you  no  ill-will, 
but  I  do  not  love  you.  Years  ago  I  made  an  idol 
and  worshipped  it,  because  I  knew  no  better ;  but  I 
am  a  foolish  girl  no  longer,  and  I  know  now  that  it 
was  a  thing  of  clay." 

To  Rob's  amazement  he  found  himself  murmuring 
these  words  even  before  they  were  spoken.  He 
seemed  to  know  them  so  well  that,  had  the  speaker 
missed  anything,  he  could  have  put  her  right.  It 
was  not  sympathy  that  worked  this  marvel.  He  had 
read  all  this  before,  or  something  very  like  it,  in 
"The  Scorn  of  Scorns." 

Nell,  too,  heard  the  voice,  but  did  not  catch  the 
words.  She  ran  forward,  and,  as  she  reached  Rob,  a 


ROB   MARCHES    TO   HIS   FATE.  95 

tall  girl  in  white,  with  a  dark  hood  over  her  head, 
pushed  aside  a  bush  and  came  into  view. 

"Mary,"  cried  Miss  Meredith,  "this  gentleman 
here  is  the  person  who  wrote  that  in  the  Mirror. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  him,  Mr.  Angus,  Miss " 

and  then  Nell  shrank  back  in  amazement,  as  she  saw 
who  was  with  her  friend. 

"  Sir  Clement  Dowton !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Rob,  however,  did  not  hear  her,  nor  see  the 
baronet ;  for,  looking  up  with  a  guilty  feeling  at  his 
heart,  his  eyes  met  Mary  Abinger. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE   ONE   WOMAN. 

DAYBREAK  on  the  following  morning  found  the 
gas  blazing  in  Rob's  lodgings.  Rob  was  seated  in 
an  arm-chair,  his  feet  on  the  cold  hearth.  "The 
Scorn  of  Scorns "  lay  on  the  mantelpiece  carefully 
done  up  in  brown  paper,  lest  a  speck  of  dust  should 
fall  on  it,  and  he  had  been  staring  at  the  ribs  of  the 
fireplace  for  the  last  three  hours  without  seeing  them. 
He  had  not  thought  of  the  gas.  His  bed  was  unslept 
on.  His  damp  boots  had  dried  on  his  feet.  He  did 
not  feel  cold.  All  night  he  had  sat  there,  a  man 
mesmerized.  For  the  only  time  in  his  life  he  had 
forgotten  to  wind  up  his  watch. 

At  times  his  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  speaking  to 
himself,  and  a  smile  lit  up  his  face.  Then  a  change 
of  mood  came,  and  he  beat  the  fender  with  his  feet 
till  the  fire-irons  rattled.  Thinking  over  these  re- 
marks brought  the  rapture  to  his  face: 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus?" 

"  You  must  not  take  to  heart  what  Miss  Meredith 
said." 

"  Please  don't  say  any  more  about  it.  I  am  quite 
sure  you  gave  your  honest  opinion  about  my  book. " 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  think  this  like  Scotland,  because, 


THE  ONE  WOMAN,  97 

of  course,  that  is  the  highest  compliment  a  Scotsman 
can  pay." 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Angus." 

That  was  all  she  had  said  to  him,  but  the  more 
Rob  thought  over  her  remarks  the  more  he  liked 
them.  It  was  not  so  much  the  words  themselves  that 
thrilled  him  as  the  way  they  were  said.  Other  peo- 
ple had  asked, "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus?"  with- 
out making  an  impression,  but  her  greeting  was  a 
revelation  of  character,  for  it  showed  that  though 
she  knew  who  he  was  she  wanted  to  put  him  at  his 
ease.  This  is  a  delightful  attribute  in  a  woman,  and 
worth  thinking  about. 

Just  before  Miss  Abinger  said  "  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Angus?"  Rob  had  realized  what  people  mean 
by  calling  her  proud.  She  was  holding  her  head 
very  high  as  she  appeared  in  the  path,  and  when 
Nell  told  her  who  Rob  was  she  flushed.  He  looked 
hopelessly  at  her,  bereft  of  speech,  as  he  saw  a  tear 
glisten  on  her  eyelid ;  and  as  their  eyes  met  she  read 
into  the  agony  that  he  was  suffering  because  he  had 
hurt  her.  It  was  then  that  Mary  made  that  memo- 
rable observation,  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Angus?" 

They  turned  toward  the  castle  doors,  Nell  and  the 
baronet  in  front,  and  Rob  blurted  out  some  self-re- 
proaches in  sentences  that  had  neither  beginning  nor 
end.  Mary  had  told  him  not  to  take  it  so  terribly  to 
heart,  but  her  voice  trembled  a  little,  for  this  had 
been  a  night  of  incident  to  her.  Rob  knew  that  it 


98  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

was  for  his  sake  she  had  checked  that  tear,  and  as 
he  sat  in  his  lodgings  through  the  night  he  saw  that 
she  had  put  aside  her  own  troubles  to  lessen  his. 
When  he  thought  of  that  he  drew  a  great  breath. 
The  next  moment  his  whole  body  shuddered  to  think 
what  a  brute  he  had  been,  and  then  she  seemed  to 
touch  his  elbow  again,  and  he  half  rose  from  his  chair 
in  a  transport. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  his  lodgings  Rob  had  taken 
up  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  which  he  had  not  yet  re- 
turned to  Mr.  Licquorish,  and  re-read  it  in  a  daze. 
There  were  things  in  it  so  beautiful  now  that  they 
caught  in  his  throat  and  stopped  his  reading ;  they 
took  him  so  far  into  the  thoughts  of  a  girl  that  to  go 
farther  seemed  like  eaves-dropping.  When  he  read 
it  first  "  The  Scorns  of  Scorns  "  had  been  written  in  a 
tongue  Rob  did  not  know,  but  now  he  had  the  key  in 
his  hands.  There  is  a  universal  language  that  comes 
upon  young  people  suddenly,  and  enables  an  English 
girl,  for  instance,  to  understand  what  a  Chinaman 
means  when  he  looks  twice  at  her.  Rob  had  mas- 
tered it  so  suddenly  that  he  was  only  its  slave  at 
present.  His  horse  had  run  away  with  him. 

Had  the  critic  of  "  The  Scorns  of  Scorns"  been  a 
bald-headed  man  with  two  chins,  who  did  not  know 
the  authoress,  he  would  have  smiled  at  the  severity 
with  which  she  took  perfidious  man  to  task,  and 
written  an  indulgent  criticism  without  reading  be- 
yond the  second  chapter.  If  he  had  been  her  father 


THE  ONE  WOMAN.  99 

he  would  have  laughed  a  good  deal  at  her  heroics, 
but  now  and  again  they  would  have  touched  him, 
and  he  would  have  locked  the  book  away  in  his  desk, 
seeing  no  particular  cleverness  in  it,  but  feeling  proud 
of  his  daughter.  It  would  have  brought  such 
thoughts  to  him  about  his  wife  as  suddenly  fill  a  man 
with  tenderness — thoughts  he  seldom  gives  expres- 
sion to,  though  she  would  like  to  hear  them. 

Rob,  however,  drank  in  the  book,  his  brain  filled 
with  the  writer  of  it.  It  was  about  a  young  girl  who 
had  given  her  heart  to  a  stranger,  and  one  day  when 
she  was  full  of  the  joy  of  his  love  he  had  disappeared. 
She  waited  wondering,  fearing,  and  then  her  heart 
broke,  and  her  only  desire  was  to  die.  No  one  could 
account  for  the  change  that  came  over  her,  for  she 
was  proud,  and  her  relatives  were  not  sympathetic. 
She  had  no  mother  to  go  to,  and  her  father  could  not 
have  understood.  She  became  listless,  and  though 
she  smiled  and  talked  to  all,  when  she  went  to  her 
solitary  bedchamber  she  turned  her  face  in  silence 
to  the  wall.  Then  a  fever  came  to  her,  and  after  that 
she  had  to  be  taken  to  the  continent.  What  shook 
her  listlessness  was  an  accident  to  her  father.  It  was 
feared  that  he  was  on  his  death-bed,  and  as  she 
nursed  him  she  saw  that  her  life  had  been  a  selfish 
one.  From  that  moment  she  resolved  if  he  got  bet- 
ter (Is  it  not  terrible  this,  that  the  best  of  us  try  to 
make  terms  with  God?)  to  devote  her  life  to  him, 
and  to  lead  a  nobler  existence  among  the  poor  and 


100  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

suffering  ones  at  home.  The  sudden  death  of  a  rela- 
tive who  was  not  a  good  man  frightened  her  so  much 
that  she  became  ill  again,  and  now  she  was  so  fear- 
ful of  being  untruthful  that  she  could  not  make  a 
statement  of  fact  without  adding,  "I  think  so," 
under  her  breath.  She  let  people  take  advantage  of 
her  lest  she  should  be  taking  advantage  of  them, 
and  when  she  passed  a  cripple  on  the  road  she 
walked  very  slowly  so  that  he  should  not  feel  his 
infirmity. 

Years  afterward  she  saw  the  man  who  had  pre- 
tended to  love  her  and  then  ridden  away.  He  said 
that  he  could  explain  everything  to  her,  and  that  he 
loved  her  still ;  but  she  drew  herself  up,  and  with  a 
look  of  ineffable  scorn  told  him  that  she  no  longer 
loved  him.  When  they  first  met,  she  said,  she  had 
been  little  more  than  a  child,  and  so  she  had  made 
an  idol  of  him.  But  long  since  the  idol  had  crum- 
bled to  pieces,  and  now  she  knew  that  she  had  wor- 
shipped a  thing  of  clay.  She  wished  him  well,  but 
she  no  longer  loved  him.  As  Lord  Caltonbridge  lis- 
tened he  knew  that  she  spoke  the  truth,  and  his  eyes 
drooped  before  her  dignified  but  contemptuous  gaze. 
Then,  concludes  the  author,  dwelling  upon  this  little 
triumph  with  a  satisfaction  that  hardly  suggests  a 
heart  broken  beyond  mending,  he  turned  upon  his 
heel,  at  last  realizing  what  he  was;  and,  feeling 
smaller  and  meaner  than  had  been  his  wont,  left  the 
Grange  for  the  second  and  last  time. 


THE   ONE  WOMAN.  101 

How  much  of  this  might  be  fiction,  Rob  was  not 
in  a  mind  to  puzzle  over.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the 
soul  of  a  pure-minded  girl  had  been  laid  bare  to  him. 
To  look  was  almost  a  desecration,  and  yet  it  was 
there  whichever  way  he  turned.  A  great  longing 
rose  in  his  heart  to  see  Mary  Abinger  again  and  tell 
her  what  he  thought  of  himself  now.  He  rose  and 
paced  the  floor,  and  the  words  he  could  not  speak 
last  night  came  to  his  lips  in  a  torrent.  Like  many 
men  who  live  much  alone  Rob  often  held  imaginary 
conversations  with  persons  far  distant,  and  he  de- 
nounced himself  to  this  girl  a  score  of  times  as  he 
paced  back  and  forward.  Always  she  looked  at  him 
in  reply  with  that  wonderful  smile  which  had  pleaded 
with  him  not  to  be  unhappy  on  her  account.  Horri- 
ble fears  laid  hold  of  him  that  after  the  guests  had 
departed  she  had  gone  to  her  room  and  wept.  That 
villain  Sir  Clement  had  doubtless  left  the  castle  for 
the  second  and  last  time,  "  feeling  smaller  and  meaner 
than  had  been  his  wont "  (Rob  clenched  his  fists  at 
the  thought  of  him) ;  but  how  could  he  dare  to  rage 
at  the  baronet  when  he  had  been  as  great  a  scoundrel 
himself?  Rob  looked  about  him  for  his  hat ;  a  power 
not  to  be  resisted  was  drawing  him  back  to  Dome 
Castle. 

He  heard  the  clatter  of  crockery  in  the  kitchen  as 
he  opened  his  door,  and  it  recalled  him  to  himself. 
At  that  moment  it  flashed  upon  him  that  he  had 
forgotten  to  write  any  notice  of  Colonel  Abinger's 


102  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

speech.  He  had  neglected  the  office  and  come  straight 
home.  At  any  other  time  this  would  have  startled 
him,  but  now  it  seemed  the  merest  trifle.  It  passed 
for  the  moment  from  his  mind,  and  its  place  was 
taken  by  the  remembrance  that  his  boots  were  muddy 
and  his  coat  soaking.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
the  seriousness  of  going  out  with  his  hair  unbrushed 
came  home  to  him.  He  had  hitherto  been  content  to 
do  little  more  than  fling  a  comb  at  it  once  a  day. 
Rob  returned  to  his  room,  and,  crossing  to  the  mir- 
ror, looked  anxiously  into  it  to  see  what  he  was  like. 
He  took  off  his  coat  and  brushed  it  vigorously. 

Having  laved  his  face,  he  opened  his  box  and  pro- 
duced from  it  two  neckties,  when  h«  looked  at  for  a 
long  time  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  which 
to  wear.  Then  he  changed  his  boots.  When  he  had 
brushed  his  hat  he  remembered  with  anxiety  some 
one  on  the  Mirror'' s  having  asked  him  why  he  wore 
it  so  far  back  on  his  head.  He  tilted  it  forward,  and 
carefully  examined  the  effect  in  the  looking-glass. 
Then,  forgetful  that  the  sounds  from  the  kitchen  be- 
tokened the  approach  of  breakfast,  he  hurried  out  of 
the  house.  It  was  a  frosty  morning,  and  already  the 
streets  were  alive,  but  Rob  looked  at  no  one.  For 
women  in  the  abstract  he  now  felt  an  unconscious 
pity,  because  they  were  all  so  very  unlike  Mary  Ab- 
inger.  He  had  grown  so  much  in  the  night  that  the 
Rob  Angus  of  the  day  before  seemed  but  an  acquaint- 
ance of  his  youth. 


THE  ONE  WOMAN.  103 

He  was  inside  the  grounds  of  Dome  Castle  again 
before  he  realized  that  he  had  no  longer  a  right  to  be 
there.  By  fits  and  starts  he  remembered  not  to  soil 
his  boots.  He  might  have  been  stopped  at  the  lodge, 
but  at  present  it  had  no  tenant.  A  year  before,  Colo- 
nel Abinger  had  realized  that  he  could  not  keep 
both  a  horse  and  a  lodge-keeper,  and  that  he  could 
keep  neither  if  his  daughter  did  not  part  with  her 
maid.  He  yielded  to  Miss  Abinger's  entreaties,  and 
kept  the  horse. 

Rob  went  on  at  a  swinging  pace  till  he  turned  an 
abrupt  corner  of  the  walk  and  saw  Dome  Castle 
standing  up  before  him.  Then  he  started  and  turned 
back  hastily.  This  was  not  owing  to  his  remem- 
bering that  he  was  trespassing,  but  because  he  had 
seen  a  young  lady  coming  down  the  steps.  Rob  had 
walked  five  miles  without  his  breakfast  to  talk  to 
Miss  Abinger,  but  as  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  fled. 
When  he  came  to  himself  he  was  so  fearful  of  her 
seeing  him  that  he  hurried  behind  a  tree,  where  he 
had  the  appearance  of  a  burglar. 

Mary  Abinger  came  quickly  up  the  avenue,  un- 
conscious that  she  was  watched,  and  Rob  discovered 
in  a  moment  that,  after  all,  the  prettiest  thing  about 
her  was  the  way  she  walked.  She  carried  a  little 
basket  in  her  hand,  and  her  dress  was  a  blending  of 
brown  and  yellow,  with  a  great  deal  of  fur  about  the 
throat.  Rob,  however,  did  not  take  the  dress  into 
account  until  she  had  passed  him,  when,  no  longer 


104  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

able  to  see  her  face,  he  gazed  with  delight  after 
her. 

Had  Rob  been  a  lady  he  would  probably  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  reason  why  Miss  Abinger 
wore  all  that  fur  instead  of  a  jacket  was  because  she 
knew  it  became  her  better.  Perhaps  it  was.  Even 
though  a  young  lady  has  the  satisfaction  of  feeling 
that  her  heart  is  now  adamant,  that  is  no  excuse  for 
her  dressing  badly.  Rob's  opinion  was  that  it  would 
matter  very  little  what  she  wore,  because  some  pic- 
tures look  lovely  in  any  frame,  but  that  was  a  point 
on  which  he  and  Miss  Abinger  always  differed. 
Only  after  long  consideration  had  she  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  hat  she  was  now  wearing  was 
undoubtedly  the  shape  that  suited  her  best,  and  even 
yet  she  was  ready  to  spend  time  in  thinking  about 
other  shapes.  What  would  have  seemed  even  more 
surprising  to  Rob  was  that  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  one  side  of  her  face  was  better  than  the 
other  side. 

No  mere  man,  however,  could  ever  have  told  which 
was  the  better  side  of  Miss  Abinger's  face.  It  was 
a  face  to  stir  the  conscience  of  a  good  man,  and  make 
unworthy  men  keep  their  distance,  for  it  spoke  first 
of  purity,  which  can  never  be  present  anywhere  with- 
out being  felt.  All  men  are  born  with  a  craving 
to  find  it,  and  they  never  look  for  it  but  among  wo- 
men. The  strength  of  the  craving  is  the  measure  of 


THE   ONE  WOMAN.  105 

any  man's  capacity  to  love,  and  without  it  love  on 
his  side  would  be  impossible. 

Mary  Abinger  was  fragile  because  she  was  so  sen- 
sitive. She  carried  everywhere  a  fear  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  others,  that  was  a  bodkin  at  her  heart. 
Men  and  women  in  general  prefer  to  give  and  take. 
The  keenness  with  which  she  felt  necessitated  the 
garment  of  reserve,  which  those  who  did  not  need  it 
for  themselves  considered  pride.  Her  weakness  called 
for  something  to  wrap  it  up.  There  were  times  when 
it  pleased  her  to  know  that  the  disguise  was  effect- 
ive, but  not  when  it  deceived  persons  she  admired. 
The  cynicism  of  "  The  Scorn  of  Scorns  "  was  as  much 
a  cloak  as  her  coldness,  for  she  had  an  exquisite  love  of 
what  is  good  and  fine  in  life  and  idealized  into  heroes 
persons  she  knew  or  heard  of  as  having  a  virtue.  It 
would  have  been  cruel  to  her  to  say  that  there  are  no 
heroes.  When  she  found  how  little  of  the  heroic  there 
was  in  Sir  Clement  Dowton  she  told  herself  that  there 
are  none,  and  sometimes  other  persons  had  made  her 
repeat  this  since.  She  seldom  reasoned  about  things, 
however,  unless  her  feelings  had  been  wounded,  and 
soon  again  she  was  dreaming  of  the  heroic.  Heroes 
are  people  to  love,  and  Mary's  ideal  of  what  love  must 
be  would  have  frightened  some  persons  from  loving 
her.  With  most  men  affection  for  a  woman  is  fed 
on  her  regard  for  them.  Greatness  in  love  is  no  more 
common  than  greatness  in  leading  armies.  Only 


106  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

the  hundredth  man  does  not  prefer  to  dally  where 
woman  is  easiest  to  win ;  most  finding  the  maids  of 
honor  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  the  princess.  So 
the  boy  in  the  street  prefers  two  poor  apples  to  a 
sound  one.  It  may  be  the  secret  of  England's  great- 
ness. 

On  this  Christmas  Day  Mary  Abinger  came  up  the 
walk  rapidly,  scorning  herself  for  ever  having  ad- 
mired Sir  Clement  Dowton.  She  did  everything  in 
the  superlative  degree,  and  so  rather  wondered  that 
a  thunderbolt  was  not  sent  direct  from  above  to  kill 
him — as  if  there  were  thunderbolts  for  every  one.  If 
we  got  our  deserts  most  of  us  would  be  knocked  on 
the  head  with  a  broomstick. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight,  Rob's  courage  returned, 
and  he  remembered  that  he  was  there  in  the  hope  of 
speaking  to  her.  He  hurried  up  the  walk  after  her, 
but  when  he  neared  her  he  fell  back  in  alarm.  His 
heart  was  beating  violently.  He  asked  himself  in  a 
quaver  what  it  was  that  he  had  arranged  to  say  first. 

In  her  little  basket  Mar}-  had  Christmas  presents 
for  a  few  people,  inhabitants  of  a  knot  of  houses  not 
far  distant  from  the  castle  gates.  They  were  her  fa- 
ther's tenants,  and  he  rather  enjoyed  their  being  un- 
able to  pay  much  rent,  it  made  them  so  dependent. 
Had  Rob  seen  how  she  was  received  in  some  of  these 
cottages,  how  she  sat  talking  merrily  with  one  bed- 
ridden old  woman  whom  cheerfulness  kept  alive,  and 
not  only  gave  a  disabled  veteran  a  packet  of  tobacco, 


THE  ONE  WOMAN.  107 

but  filled  his  pipe  for  him,  so  that  he  gallantly  said 
he  was  reluctant  to  smoke  it  (trust  an  old  man  for 
gallantry !) ,  and  even  ate  pieces  of  strange  cakes  to 
please  her  hostesses,  he  would  often  have  thought  of 
it  afterward.  However,  it  would  have  been  unneces- 
sary prodigality  to  show  him  that,  for  his  mind  was 
filled  with  the  incomparable  manner  in  which  she 
knocked  at  doors  and  smiled  when  she  came  out. 
Once  she  dropped  her  basket,  and  he  could  remember 
nothing  so  exquisite  as  her  way  of  picking  it  up. 

Rob  lurked  behind  trees  and  peered  round  hedges, 
watching  Miss  Abinger  go  from  one  house  to  an- 
other, but  he  could  not  shake  himself  free  of  the  fear 
that  all  the  world  had  its  eye  on  him.  Hitherto  not 
his  honesty  but  its  bluntness  had  told  against  him 
(the  honesty  of  a  good  many  persons  is  only  stupidity 
asserting  itself),  and  now  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
be  honest.  When  any  wayfarers  approached  he 
whistled  to  the  fields  as  if  he  had  lost  a  dog  in  them, 
or  walked  smartly  eastward  (until  he  got  round  a 
corner)  like  one  who  was  in  a  hurry  to  reach  Silches- 
ter.  He  looked  covertly  at  the  few  persons  who 
passed  him,  to  see  if  they  were  looking  at  him.  A 
solitary  crow  fluttered  into  the  air  from  behind  a 
wall,  and  Rob  started.  In  a  night  he  had  become 
self-conscious. 

At  last  Mary  turned  homeward,  with  the  sun  in 
her  face.  Rob  was  moving  toward  the  hamlet  when 
he  saw  her,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  came  to  a 


108  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

dead  stop.  He  knew  that  if  she  passed  inside  the 
gates  of  the  castle  his  last  chance  of  speaking  to  her 
was  gone ;  but  it  was  not  that  which  made  him  keep 
his  ground.  He  was  shaking  as  the  thin  boards 
used  to  do  when  they  shot  past  his  circular  saw. 
His  mind,  in  short,  had  run  away  and  left  him. 

On  other  occasions  Mary  would  not  have  thought 
of  doing  more  than  bow  to  Rob,  but  he  had  Christ- 
mas Day  in  his  favor,  and  she  smiled. 

"  A  happy  Christmas  to  you,  Mr.  Angus,"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

It  was  then  that  Rob  lifted  his  hat,  and  overcame 
his  upbringing.  His  unaccustomed  fingers  insisted 
on  lifting  it  in  such  a  cautious  way  that,  in  a  court  of 
law,  it  could  have  been  argued  that  he  was  only 
planting  it  more  firmly  on  his  head.  He  did  not  do 
it  well,  but  he  did  it.  Some  men  would  have  suc- 
cumbed altogether  on  realizing  so  sharply  that  it  is 
not  women  who  are  terrible,  but  a  woman.  Here  is 
a  clear  case  in  which  the  part  is  greater  than  the 
whole. 

Rob  would  have  liked  to  wish  Miss  Abinger  a 
happy  Christmas  too,  but  the  words  would  not  form, 
and  had  she  chosen  she  could  have  left  him  looking 
very  foolish.  But  Mary  had  blushed  slightly  when 
she  caught  sight  of  Rob  standing  helplessly  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  this  meant  that  she  under- 
stood what  he  was  doing  there.  A  girl  can  overlook 
a  great  deal  in  a  man  who  admires  her.  She  feels 


TEE  ONE  WOMAN.  109 

happier.  It  increases  her  self-respect.  So  Miss 
Abinger  told  him  that,  if  the  frost  held,  the  snow 
would  soon  harden,  but  if  a  thaw  came  it  would  melt ; 
and  then  Rob  tore  out  of  himself  the  words  that 
tended  to  slip  back  as  they  reached  his  tongue. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  could  have  done  it,"  he  said 
feebly,  beginning  at  the  end  of  what  he  had  meant 
to  say.  There  he  stuck  again. 

Mary  knew  what  he  spoke  of,  and  her  pale  face 
colored.  She  shrank  from  talking  of  "  The  Scorn  of 
Scorns." 

"Please  don't  let  that  trouble  you,"  she  said,  with 
an  effort.  "  I  was  really  only  a  school-girl  when  I 
wrote  it,  and  Miss  Meredith  got  it  printed  recently 
as  a  birthday  surprise  for  me.  I  assure  you  I  would 
never  have  thought  of  publishing  it  myself  for — for 
people  to  read.  School-girls,  you  know,  Mr.  Angus, 
are  full  of  such  silly  sentiment." 

A  breeze  of  indignation  shook  "  No,  no !"  out  of 
Rob,  but  Mary  did  not  heed. 

"I  know  better  now,"  she  said;  "indeed,  not  even 
you,  the  hardest  of  my  critics,  sees  more  clearly  than 
I  the— the  childishness  of  the  book." 

Miss  Abinger's  voice  faltered  a  very  little,  and 
Rob's  sufferings  allowed  him  to  break  out. 

"No,"  he  said,  with 'a  look  of  appeal  in  his  eyes 
that  were  as  gray  as  hers,  "  it  was  a  madness  that 
let  me  write  like  that.  'The  Scorns  of  Scorns'  is  the 
most  beautiful,  the  tenderest "  He  stuck  once 


110  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

more.  Miss  Abinger  could  have  helped  him  again, 
but  she  did  not.  Perhaps  she  wanted  him  to  go  on. 
He  could  not  do  so,  but  he  repeated  what  he  had  said 
already,  which  may  have  been  the  next  best  thing 
to  do. 

"  You  do  surprise  me  now,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Mary, 
light-hearted  all  at  once,  "  for  you  know  you  scarcely 
wrote  like  that." 

"Ah,  but  I  have  read  the  book  since  I  saw  you," 
Rob  blurted  out,  "  and  that  has  made  such  a  differ- 
ence. " 

A  wiser  man  might  have  said  a  more  foolish  thing. 
Mary  looked  up  smiling.  Her  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  at  once  she  became  merciless.  Hitherto  she  had 
only  tried  to  be  kind  to  Rob,  but  now  she  wanted  to 
be  kind  to  herself. 

"  You  can  hardly  have  re-read  my  story  since  last 
night,"  she  said,  shaking  her  fair  head  demurely. 

"I  read  it  all  through  the  night,"  exclaimed  Rob, 
in  such  a  tone  that  Mary  started.  She  had  no  desire 
to  change  the  conversation,  however;  she  did  not 
start  so  much  as  that. 

"  But  you  had  to  write  papa's  speech?"  she  said. 

"I  forgot  to  do  it,"  Rob  answered  awkwardly. 
His  heart  sank,  for  he  saw  that  here  was  another 
cause  he  had  given  Miss  Abinger  to  dislike  him. 
Possibly  he  was  wrong.  There  may  be  extenuating 
circumstances  that  will  enable  the  best  of  daughters 
to  overlook  an  affront  to  her  father's  speeches. 


THE   ONE  WOMAN.  Ill 

"  But  it  was  in  the  Mirror.    I  read  it,"  said  Mary. 

"Was  it?"  said  Rob,  considerably  relieved.  How 
it  could  have  got  there  was  less  of  a  mystery  to  him 
than  to  her,  for  Protheroe  had  sub-edited  so  many 
speeches  to  tenants  that  in  an  emergency  he  could  al- 
ways guess  at  what  the  landlords  said. 

"It  was  rather  short,"  Mary  admitted,  "compared 
with  the  report  in  the  Argus.     Papa  thought — 
She  stopped  hastily. 

"  He  thought  it  should  have  been  longer?"  asked 
Rob.  Then,  before  he  had  time  to  think  of  it,  be  had 
told  her  of  his  first  meeting  with  the  colonel. 

"I  remember  papa  was  angry  at  the  time,*  Mary 
said,  "  but  you  need  not  have  been  afraid  of  his  rec- 
ognizing you  last  night.  He  did  recognize  you." 

"Did  he?" 

"Yes;  but  you  were  his  guest." 

Rob  could  not  think  of  anything  more  to  say,  and 
he  saw  that  Mary  was  about  to  bid  him  good-morn- 
ing. He  found  himself  walking  with  her  in  the 
direction  of  the  castle  gates. 

"This  scenery  reminds  me  of  Scotland,"  he  said. 

"I  love  it,"  said  Mary  (man's  only  excellence  over 
woman  is  that  his  awe  of  this  word  prevents  his 
using  it  so  lightly),  "and  I  am  glad  that  I  shall 
be  here  until  the  season  begins." 

Rob  had  no  idea  what  the  season  was,  but  he  saw 
that  some  time  Mary  would  be  going  away,  and  his 
face  said,  What  would  he  do  then? 


112  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Then  I  go  to  London  with  the  Merediths,"  she 
continued,  adding  thoughtfully,  "  I  suppose  you  mean 
to  go  to  London,  Mr.  Angus?  My  brother  says  that 
all  literary  men  drift  there." 

"Yes,  oh,  yes,"  said  Rob. 

"Soon?" 

"Immediately,"  he  replied  recklessly. 

They  reached  the  gates,  and,  as  Mary  held  out  her 
hand,  the  small  basket  was  tilted  upon  her  arm,  and  ^ 
a  card  fluttered  out.  *t 

"  It  is  a  Christmas  card  a  little  boy  in  one  of  those 
houses  gave  me,"  she  said,  as  Rob  returned  it  to  her. 
"  Have  you  got  many  Christmas  cards  to-day,  Mr. 
Angus?" 

"None,  "said  Rob. 

"Not  even  from  your  relatives?"  asked  Mary,  be- 
ginning to  pity  him  more  than  was  necessary. 

"I  have  no  relatives,"  he  replied;  "they  are  all 
dead." 

"  I  was  in  Scotland  two  summers  ago,"  Mary 
said,  very  softly,  "  at  a  place  called  Glen  Quharity ; 
papa  was  there  shooting.  But  I  don't  suppose  you 
know  it?" 

"Our  Glen  Quharity!"  exclaimed  Rob;  "why,  you 
must  have  passed  through  Thrums?" 

"  We  were  several  times  in  Thrums.  Have  you 
been  there?" 

"  I  was  born  in  it ;  I  was  never  thirty  miles  away 
from  it  until  I  came  here." 


THE   ONE  WOMAN.  113 

"Oh,"  cried  Mary,  "then  you  must  be  the  liter- 
ary   She  stopped  and  reddened. 

"The  literary  saw-miller,"  said  Rob,  finishing  her 
sentence ;  "  that  was  what  they  called  me,  I  know,  at 
Glen  Quharity  Lodge." 

Mary  looked  up  at  him  with  a  new  interest,  for 
when  she  was  there  Glen  Quharity  had  been  full  of 
the  saw-miller,  who  could  not  only  talk  in  Greek, 
but  had  a  reputation  for  tossing  the  caber. 

"  Papa  told  me  some  months  ago,"  she  said,  in  sur- 
prise, "that  the  liter that  you  had  joined  the 

press  in  England,  but  he  evidently  did  not  know  of 
your  being  in  Silchester." 

"But  how  could  he  have  known  anything  about 
me?"  asked  Rob,  surprised  in  turn. 

"This  is  so  strange,"  Mary  answered.  "Why, 
papa  takes  credit  for  having  got  you  your  appoint- 
ment on  the  press." 

"  It  was  a  minister,  a  Mr.  Rorrison,  who  did  that 
for  me,"  said  Rob;  "indeed,  he  was  so  good  that  I 
could  have  joined  the  press  a  year  ago  by  his  help, 
had  not  circumstances  compelled  me  to  remain  at 
home." 

"I  did  not  know  the  clergyman's  name,"  Mary 
said,  "  but  it  was  papa  who  spoke  of  you  to  him  first. 
Don't  you  remember  writing  out  this  clergyman's 
sermon  in  shorthand,  and  a  messenger's  coming  to 
you,  for  your  report,  on  horseback  next  day?" 

"Certainly  I  do,"  said  Rob,  "and  he  asked  me  to 
8 


114  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

write  it  out  in  longhand  as  quickly  as  possible.  That 
was  how  I  got  to  know  Mr.  Rorrison ;  and,  as  I  un- 
derstood, he  had  sent  for  the  report  of  the  sermon,  on 
hearing  accidentally  that  I  had  taken  it  down,  be- 
cause he  had  some  reason  for  wanting  a  copy  of  it. " 

"  Perhaps  that  was  how  it  was  told  to  you  after- 
ward," Mary  said,  "but  it  was  really  papa  who 
wanted  the  sermon." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  all  about  it, "  Rob  said,  see- 
ing that  she  hesitated.  Colonel  Abinger  had  not 
seemed  to  him  the  kind  of  man  who  would  send  a 
messenger  on  horseback  about  the  country  in  quest 
of  sermons." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  Mary  explained,  "  that  it  arose  out 
of  a  wager.  This  clergyman  was  staying  at  the 
Lodge,  but  papa  was  the  only  other  person  there  who 
would  go  as  far  as  Thrums  to  hear  him  preach.  I 
was  not  there  that  year,  so  I  don't  know  why  papa 
went,  but  when  he  returned  he  told  the  others  that 
the  sermon  had  been  excellent.  There  is  surely  an 
English  church  in  Thrums,  for  I  am  sure  papa  would 
not  think  a  sermon  excellent  that  was  preached  in  a 
chapel?" 

"  There  is,"  said  Rob;  " but  in  Thrums  it  is  called 
the  chapel." 

"  Well,  some  badinage  arose  out  of  papa's  eulogy, 
and  it  ended  in  a  bet  that  he  could  not  tell  the  others 
what  this  fine  sermon  was  about.  He  was  to  get  a 
night  to  think  it  over.  Papa  took  the  bet  a  little 


THE   ONE  WOMAN.  115 

rashly,  for  when  he  put  it  to  himself  he  found  that 
he  could  not  even  remember  the  text.  As  he  told  me 
afterward  (here  Mary  smiled  a  little),  he  had  a  gen- 
eral idea  of  the  sermon,  but  could  not  quite  put  it 
into  words,  and  he  was  fearing  that  he  would  lose 
the  wager  (and  l>e  laughed  at,  which  always  vexes 
papa),  when  he  heard  of  your  report.  So  a  messenger 
was  sent  to  Thrums  for  it — and  papa  won  his  bet." 

"  But  how  did  Mr.  Rorrison  hear  of  my  report, 
then?" 

"  Oh,  I  forgot ;  papa  told  him  afterward,  and  was 
so  pleased  with  his  victory  that,  when  he  heard  Mr. 
Rorrison  had  influence  with  some  press  people,  he 
suggested  to  him  that  something  might  be  done  for 
you." 

"This  is  strange,"  said  Rob,  "and  perhaps  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  if  Colonel  Abinger 
could  identify  me  with  the  saw-miller  he  would  be 
sorry  that  he  had  interfered." 

Mary  saw  the  force  of  this  so  clearly  that  she  could 
not  contradict  him. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "I  heard  when  I  was  at  the 
Lodge  of  your  having  a  niece,  and  that  you  and  the 
little  child  lived  alone  in  the  saw-mill?" 

"Yes,"  Rob  answered  hoarsely,  "but  she  is  dead. 
She  wandered  from  home,  and  was  found  dead  on  a 
mountain-side." 

"Was  it  long  ago?"  asked  Mary,  very  softly. 

"Only  a  few  months  ago,"  Rob  said,  making  his 


116  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

answer  as  short  as  possible,  for  the  death  of  Davy 
moved  him  still.  "  She  was  only  four  years  old. " 

Mary's  hand  went  half-way  toward  his  involun- 
tarily. His  mouth  was  twitching.  He  knew  how 
good  she  was. 

"That  card,"  he  began,  and  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  would  you  care  to  have  it?"  said  Mary. 

But  just  then  Colonel  Abinger  walked  in  to  them, 
somewhat  amazed  to  see  his  daughter  talking  to  one 
of  the  lower  orders.  Neither  Rob  nor  Mary  had  any 
inclination  to  tell  him  that  this  was  the  Scotsman  he 
had  befriended. 

"This  is  Mr.  Angus,  papa,"  said  Mary,  "who — 
who  was  with  us  last  night." 

"Mr.  Angus  and  I  have  met  before,  I  think,"  re- 
plied her  father,  recalling  the  fishing  episode.  His 
brow  darkened,  and  Rob  was  ready  for  anything, 
but  Colonel  Abinger  was  a  gentleman. 

"  I  always  wanted  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Angus," 
he  said,  with  an  effort,  "  to  ask  you — what  flies  you 
were  using  that  day?" 

Rob  muttered  something  in  answer,  which  the 
colonel  did  not  try  to  catch.  Mary  smiled  and 
bowed,  and  the  next  moment  she  had  disappeared 
with  her  father  down  the  avenue. 

What  followed  cannot  be  explained.  When  Rob 
roused  himself  from  his  amazement  at  Mary  Abin- 
ger's  having  been  in  Thrums  without  his  feeling  her 
presence,  something  made  him  go  a  few  yards  inside 


THE  ONE  WOMAN.  117 

the  castle  grounds,  and,  lying  lightly  on  the  snow, 
he  saw  the  Christmas  card.  He  lifted  it  up  as  if  it 
were  a  rare  piece  of  china,  and  held  it  in  his  two 
hands  as  though  it  were  a  bird  which  might  escape. 
He  did  not  know  whether  it  had  dropped  there  of  its 
own  accord,  and  doubt  and  transport  fought  for  vic- 
tory on  his  face.  At  last  he  put  the  card  exultingly 
into  his  pocket,  his  chest  heaved,  and  he  went  toward 
Silchester  whistling. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   GEAND   PASSION? 

ONE  of  the  disappointments  of  life  is  that  the  per- 
sons we  think  we  have  reason  to  dislike  are  seldom 
altogether  villains;  they  are  not  made  sufficiently 
big  for  it.  When  we  can  go  to  sleep  in  an  armchair 
this  ceases  to  be  a  trouble,  but  it  vexed  Mary  Abin- 
ger.  Her  villain  of  fiction,  on  being  haughtily  re- 
jected, had  at  least  left  the  heroine's  home  looking  a 
little  cowed.  Sir  Clement  in  the  same  circumstances 
had  stayed  on. 

The  colonel  had  looked  forward  resentfully  for 
years  to  meeting  this  gentleman  again,  and  giving 
him  a  piece  of  his  stormy  mind.  When  the  oppor- 
tunity came,  however,  Mary's  father  instead  asked 
his  unexpected  visitor  to  remain  for  a  week.  Colo- 
nel Abinger  thought  he  was  thus  magnanimous  be- 
cause his  guest  had  been  confidential  with  him,  but 
it  was  perhaps  rather  because  Sir  Clement  had  ex- 
plained how  much  he  thought  of  him.  To  dislike 
our  admirers  is  to  be  severe  on  ourselves,  and  is 
therefore  not  common. 

The  Dome  had  introduced  the  colonel  to  Sir  Clem- 
ent as  well  as  to  Rob.  One  day  Colonel  Abinger  had 
118 


THE   GRAND   PASSION?  119 

received  by  letter  from  a  little  hostelry  in  the  neigh- 
borhood the  compliments  of  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  and 
a  request  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  fish  in  the  pre- 
served water.  All  that  Mary's  father  knew  of  Dow^ 
ton  at  that  time  was  that  he  had  been  lost  to  English 
society  for  half  a  dozen  years.  Once  in  many  months 
the  papers  spoke  of  him  as  serving  under  Gordon  in 
China,  as  being  taken  captive  by  an  African  king, 
as  having  settled  down  in  a  cattle  ranche  in  the 
vicinity  of  Manitoba.  His  lawyers  were  probably 
aware  of  his  whereabouts  oftener  than  other  persons. 
All  that  society  knew  was  that  he  hated  England 
because  one  of  its  daughters  had  married  a  curate. 
The  colonel  called  at  the  inn,  and  found  Sir  Clement 
such  an  attentive  listener  that  he  thought  the  baro- 
net's talk  quite  brilliant.  A  few  days  afterward  the 
stranger's  traps  were  removed  to  the  castle,  and  then 
he  met  Miss  Abinger,  who  was  recently  home  from 
school.  He  never  spoke  to  her  of  his  grudge  against 
England. 

It  is  only  the  unselfish  men  who  think  much,  other- 
wise Colonel  Abinger  might  have  pondered  a  little 
over  his  guest.  Dowton  had  spoken  of  himself  as  an 
enthusiastic  angler,  yet  he  let  his  flies  drift  down  the 
stream  like  fallen  leaves.  He  never  remembered  to 
go  a-fishing  until  it  was  suggested  to  him.  He  had 
given  his  host  several  reasons  for  his  long  absence 
from  his  property,  and  told  him  he  did  not  want  the 
world  to  know  that  he  v/as  back  in  England,  as  he 


120  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

was  not  certain  whether  he  would  remain.  The  colo- 
nel at  his  request  introduced  him  to  the  few  visitors 
at  the  castle  as  Mr.  Dowton,  and  was  surprised  to 
discover  afterward  that  they  all  knew  his  real  name. 

"I  assure  you,"  Mary's  father  said  to  him,  "that 
they  have  not  learned  it  from  me.  It  is  incompre- 
hensible how  a  thing  like  that  leaks  out." 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  Dowton,  who,  how- 
ever, should  have  understood  it,  as  he  had  taken  the 
visitors  aside  and  told  them  his  real  name  himself. 
He  seemed  to  do  this  not  of  his  free  will,  but  because 
he  could  not  help  it. 

It  never  struck  the  colonel  that  his  own  society 
was  not  what  tied  Sir  Clement  to  Dome  Castle;  for 
widowers  with  grown-up  daughters  are  in  a  foreign 
land  without  interpreters.  On  that  morning  when 
the  baronet  vanished,  nevertheless,  the  master  of 
Dome  Castle  was  the  only  person  in  it  who  did  not 
think  that  it  would  soon  lose  its  mistress,  mere  girl 
though  she  was. 

Sir  Clement's  strange  disappearance  was  accounted 
for  at  the  castle,  where  alone  it  was  properly  known, 
in  various  ways.  Miss  Abinger,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  servants'  hall,  held  her  head  so  high  that  there  he 
was  believed  to  have  run  away  because  she  had  said 
him  no.  Miss  Abinger  excused  and  blamed  him 
alternately  to  herself  until  she  found  a  dull  satisfac- 
tion in  looking  upon  him  as  the  villain  he  might 
have  been  had  his  high  forehead  spoken  true.  As 


121 

for  the  colonel,  he  ordered  Mary  (he  had  no  need) 
never  to  mention  the  fellow's  name  to  him,  but  men- 
tioned it  frequently  himself. 

Nothing  had  happened,  so  far  as  was  known,  to 
disturb  the  baronet's  serenity;  neither  friends  nor 
lawyers  had  been  aware  that  he  was  in  England,  and 
he  had  received  no  letters.  Mary  remembered  his 
occasional  fits  of  despondency,  but  on  the  whole  he 
seemed  to  revel  in  his  visit,  and  had  never  looked 
happier  than  the  night  before  he  went.  His  traps 
were  sent  by  the  colonel  in  a  fury  to  the  little  inn 
where  he  had  at  first  taken  up  his  abode,  but  it  was 
not  known  at  the  castle  whether  he  ever  got  them. 
Some  months  afterward  a  letter  from  him  appeared 
in  the  Times,  dated  from  Suez,  and  from  then  until 
he  reappeared  at  Dome  Castle,  the  colonel,  except 
when  he  spoke  to  himself,  never  heard  the  baronet's 
name  mentioned. 

Sir  Clement  must  have  been  very  impulsive,  for  on 
returning  to  the  castle  he  had  intended  to  treat  Miss 
Abinger  with  courteous  coldness,  as  if  she  had  been 
responsible  for  his  flight,  and  he  had  not  seen  her 
again  for  ten  minutes  before  he  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  He  meant  to  explain  his  conduct  in  one  way 
to  the  colonel,  and  he  explained  it  in  quite  another 
way. 

When  Colonel  Abinger  took  him  into  the  smoking- 
room  on  Christmas  Eve  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say 
for  himself,  the  baronet  sank  into  a  chair,  with  a  look 


122  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

of  contentment  on  his  beautiful  face  that  said  he  was 
glad  to  be  there  again.  Then  the  colonel  happened  to 
mention  Mary's  name  in  such  a  way  that  he  seemed 
to  know  of  Sir  Clement's  proposal  to  her  three  years 
earlier.  At  once  the  baronet  began  another  story 
from  the  one  he  had  meant  to  tell,  and  though  he 
soon  discovered  that  he  had  credited  his  host  with  a 
knowledge  the  colonel  did  not  possess,  it  was  too  late 
to  draw  back.  So  Mary's  father  heard  to  his  amaze- 
ment that  tho  baronet  had  run  away  because  he  was 
in  love  with  Miss  Abinger.  Colonel  Abinger  had 
read  "The  Scorn  of  Scorns,"  but  it  had  taught  him 
nothing. 

"  She  was  only  a  school-girl  when  you  saw  her  last," 
he  said,in  bewilderment;  "but  I  hardly  see  how  that 
should  have  made  you  fly  the  house  like — yes,  like  a 
thief." 

Dowton  looked  sadly  at  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  speaking  as  if  with  re- 
luctance, "  that  in  any  circumstances  I  should  be  jus- 
tified in  telling  you  the  whole  miserable  story.  Can 
you  not  guess  it?  When  I  came  here  I  was  not  a 
free  man." 

"You  were  already  married?" 

"No,  but  I  was  engaged  to  be  married." 

"Did  Mary  know  anything  of  this?" 

"  Nothing  of  that  engagement,  and  but  little,  I 
think,  of  the  attachment  that  grew  up  in  my  heart 
for  her.  I  kept  that  to  myself." 


THE   GRAND   PASSION  9  123 

"She  was  too  young,"  said  the  wise  colonel,  "to 
think  of  such  things  then ;  and  even  now  I  do  not  see 
why  you  should  have  left  us  as  you  did." 

Sir  Clement  rose  to  his  feet  and  paced  the  room  in 
great  agitation. 

"It  is  hard,"  he  said  at  last,  "to  speak  of  such  a 
thing  to  another  man.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Abinger, 
that  when  I  was  with  you  three  years  ago  there  were 
times  when  I  thought  I  would  lose  my  reason.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  have  such  a  passion  as  that 
raging  in  your  heart  and  yet  have  to  stifle  it?  There 
were  whole  nights  when  I  walked  up  and  down  my 
room  till  dawn.  I  trembled  every  time  I  saw  Miss 
Abinger  alone  lest  I  should  say  that  to  her  which  I 
had  no  right  to  say.  Her  voice  alone  was  sufficient 
to  unman  me.  I  felt  that  my  only  safety  was  in 
flight." 

"  I  have  run  away  from  a  woman  myself  in  my 
time,"  the  colonel  said,  with  a  grim  chuckle.  "  There 
are  occasions  when  it  is  the  one  thing  to  do ;  but  this 
was  surely  not  one  of  them,  if  Mary  knew  nothing." 

"  Sometimes  I  feared  she  did  know  that  I  cared  for 
her.  That  is  a  hard  thing  to  conceal,  and  besides 
I  suppose  I  felt  so  wretched  that  I  was  not  in  a  con- 
dition to  act  rationally.  When  I  left  the  castle  that 
day  I  had  not  the  least  intention  of  not  returning." 

"And  since  then  you  have  been  half  round  the 
world  again?  Are  you  married?" 

"No." 


124  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand " 

"That  she  is  dead,"  said  Sir  Clement,  in  a  low 
voice. 

There  was  a  silence  between  them,  which  was  at 
last  broken  by  the  colonel. 

"What  you  have  told  me,"  he  said,  "is  a  great 
surprise,  more  especially  with  regard  to  my  daugh- 
ter. Being  but  a  child  at  the  time,  however,  she 
could  not,  I  am  confident,  have  thought  of  you  in  any 
other  light  than  as  her  father's  friend.  It  is,  of 
course,  on  that  footing  that  you  return  now?" 

"As  her  father's  friend,  certainly,  I  hope,"  said 
the  baronet  firmly ;  "  but  I  wish  to  tell  you  now  that 
my  regard  for  her  has  never  changed.  I  confess  I 
would  have  been  afraid  to  come  back  to  you  had  not 
my  longing  to  see  her  again  given  me  courage." 

"  She  has  not  the  least  idea  of  this,"  murmured  the 
colonel — "  not  the  least.  The  fact  is  that  Mary  has 
lived  so  quietly  with  me  here  that  she  is  still  a  child. 
Miss  Meredith,  whom  I  dare  say  you  have  met  here, 
has  been  almost  her  only  friend,  and  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain that  the  thought  of  marriage  has  never  crossed 
their  minds.  If  you,  or  even  if  I,  were  to  speak  of 
such  a  thing  to  Mary  it  would  only  frighten  her." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  speaking  to  her  on  the  sub- 
ject at  present,"  the  baronet  interposed  rather  hur- 
riedly, "  but  I  thought  it  best  to  explain  my  position 
to  you.  You  know  what  I  am— that  I  have  been 
almost  a  vagrant  on  the  face  of  the  earth  since  I 


THE   GRAND   PASSION?  125 

reached  manhood ;  but  no  one  can  see  more  clearly 
than  I  do  myself  how  unworthy  I  am  of  her." 

"  I  do  not  need  to  tell  you,"  said  the  colonel,  taking 
the  baronet's  hand,  "  that  I  used  to  like  you,  Dowton, 
and  indeed  I  know  no  one  whom  I  would  prefer  for  a 
son-in-law.  But  you  must  be  cautious  with  Mary." 

"I  shall  be  very  cautious,"  said  the  baronet;  "in- 
deed there  is  no  hurry — none  whatever." 

Colonel  Abinger  would  have  brought  the  conversa- 
tion to  a  close  here,  but  there  was  something  more 
for  Dowton  to  say. 

"I  agree  with  you,"  he  said,  forgetting,  perhaps, 
that  the  colonel  had  not  spoken  on  this  point,  "  that 
Miss  Abinger  should  be  kept  ignorant  for  the  present 
of  the  cause  that  drove  me  on  that  former  occasion 
from  the  castle." 

"It  is  the  wisest  course  to  adopt,"  said  the  colonel, 
looking  as  if  he  had  thought  the  matter  out  step  by 
step. 

"The  only  thing  I  am  doubtful  about,"  continued 
Dowton,  "is  whether  Miss  Abinger  will  not  think 
that  she  is  entitled  to  some  explanation.  She  can- 
not, I  fear,  have  forgotten  the  circumstances  of  my 
departure." 

"Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score,"  said  the 
colonel ;  "  the  best  proof  that  Mary  gave  the  matter 
little  thought,  even  at  the  time,  is  that  she  did  not 
speak  of  it  to  me.  Sweet  seventeen  has  always  a 
short  memory." 


126  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"But  I  have  sometimes  thought  since  that  Miss 
Abinger  did  care  for  me  a  little,  in  which  case  she 
would  have  unfortunate  cause  to  resent  my  flight." 

While  he  spoke  the  baronet  was  looking  anxiously 
into  the  colonel's  face. 

"I  can  give  you  my  word  for  it,"  said  the  colonel 
cheerily,  "  that  she  did  not  give  your  disappearance 
two  thoughts ;  and  now  I  much  question  whether  she 
will  recognize  you." 

Dowton's  face  clouded,  but  the  other  misinter- 
preted the  shadow. 

"  So  put  your  mind  at  rest,"  said  the  colonel  kindly, 
"  and  trust  an  old  stager  like  myself  for  being  able  to 
read  into  a  woman's  heart." 

Shortly  afterward  Colonel  Abinger  left  his  guest, 
and  for  nearly  five  minutes  the  baronet  looked  de- 
jected. It  is  sometimes  advantageous  to  hear  that  a 
lady  with  whom  you  have  watched  the  moon  rise 
has  forgotten  your  very  name,  but  it  is  never  com- 
plimentary. By-and-bye,  however,  Sir  Clement's 
sense  of  humor  drove  the  gloom  from  his  chiselled 
face,  and  a  glass  bracket  over  the  mantelpiece  told 
him  that  he  was  laughing  heartily. 

It  was  a  small  breakfast  party  at  the  castle  next 
morning,  Sir  Clement  and  Greybrooke  being  the 
only  guests,  but  the  baronet  was  so  gay  and  morose 
by  turns  that  he  might  have  been  two  persons.  In 
the  middle  of  a  laugh  at  some  remark  of  the  captain's 
he  would  break  off  with  a  sigh,  and  immediately  after 


THE   GRAND   PASSION?  127 

sadly  declining  another  cup  of  coffee  from  Mary,  he 
said  something  humorous  to  her  father.  The  one 
mood  was  natural  to  him  and  the  other  forced,  but  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  decide  which  was  which. 
It  is,  however,  one  of  the  hardest  things  in  life  to  re- 
main miserable  for  any  length  of  time  on  a  stretch. 
When  Dowton  found  himself  alone  with  Mary  his 
fingers  were  playing  an  exhilarating  tune  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, but  as  he  looked  at  her  his  hands  fell  to  his 
side,  and  there  was  pathos  in  his  fine  eyes.  Drawn 
toward  her,  he  took  a  step  forward,  but  Miss  Abin- 
ger  said  "  No  "  so  decisively  that  he  stopped  irresolute. 

"I  shall  be  leaving  the  castle  in  an  hour,"  Sir 
Clement  said  slowly. 

"Papa  told  me,"  said  Mary,  "that  he  had  prevailed 
upon  you  to  remain  for  a  week." 

"  He  pressed  me  to  do  so,  and  I  consented,  but  you 
have  changed  everything  since  then.  Ah,  Mary " 

"Miss  Abinger,"  said  Mary. 

"  Miss  Abinger,  if  you  would  only  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  say.  I  can  explain  everything.  I " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  explain,"  said  Mary — "noth- 
ing that  I  have  either  a  right  or  a  desire  to  hear. 
Plea'se  not  to  return  to  this  subject  again.  I  said 
everything  there  was  to  say  last  night." 

The  baronet's  face  paled,  and  he  bowed  his  head 
in  deep  dejection.  His  voice  was  trembling  a  little, 
and  he  observed  it  with  gratification  as  he  answered : 

"Then,  I  suppose,  I  must  bid  you  good-by?" 


128  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Good-by,"  said  Mary.  "Does  papa  know  you 
are  going?" 

"  I  promised  to  him  to  stay  on,"  said  Sir  Clement, 
"and  I  can  hardly  expect  him  to  forgive  me  if  I 
change  my  mind." 

This  was  put  almost  in  the  form  of  a  question,  and 
Mary  thought  she  understood  it. 

"Then  you  mean  to  remain?"  she  asked. 

"You  compel  me  to  go,"  he  replied  dolefully. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mary,  "I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  going  or  staying." 

"  But  it — it  would  hardly  do  for  me  to  remain  after 
what  took  place  last  night,"  said  the  baronet,  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  was  open  to  contradiction. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  conversation  Mary  smiled. 
It  was  not,  however,  the  smile  every  man  would  care 
to  see  at  his  own  expense. 

"If  you  were  to  go  now,"  she  said,  "you  would 
not  be  fulfilling  your  promise  to  papa,  and  I  know 
that  men  do  not  like  to  break  their  word  to — to  other 
men." 

"Then  you  think  I  ought  to  stay?"  asked  Sir 
Clement  eagerly. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  think,"  said  Mary. 

"Perhaps,  then,  I  ought  to  remain — for  Colonel 
Abinger's  sake,"  said  the  baronet. 

Mary  did  not  answer. 

"Only  for  a  few  days,"  he  continued,  almost  ap- 
pealingly. 


THE  GRAND  PASSION?  129 

"Very  well,  "said  Mary. 

"And  you  won't  think  the  worse  of  me  for  it?" 
asked  Dowton  anxiously.  "  Of  course,  if  I  were  to 
consult  my  own  wishes  I  would  go  now,  but  as  I 
promised  Colonel  Abinger — 

"  You  will  remain  out  of  consideration  for  papa. 
How  could  I  think  worse  of  you  for  that?" 

Mary  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  as  Sir  Clement 
opened  the  door  for  her  he  said : 

"We  shall  say  nothing  of  all  this  to  Colonel 
Abinger?" 

"Oh,  no,  certainly  not,"  said  Mary. 

She  glanced  up  in  his  face,  her  mouth  twisted 
slightly  to  one  side,  as  it  had  a  habit  of  doing  when 
she  felt  disdainful,  and  the  glory  of  her  beauty 
filled  him  of  a  sudden.  The  baronet  pushed  the  door 
close  and  turned  to  her  passionately,  a  film  over  his 
eyes,  and  his  hands  outstretched. 

" Mary,"  he  cried,  "is  there  no  hope  for  me?" 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  opening  the  door  for  herself  and 
passing  out. 

Sir  Clement  stood  there  motionless  for  a  minute. 
Then  he  crossed  to  the  fireplace,  and  sank  into  a  lux- 
uriously cushioned  chair.  The  sunlight  came  back 
to  his  noble  face. 

"This  is  grand,  glorious,"  he  murmured,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  enjoyment. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  baronet's  behavior 
was  a  little  peculiar.  Occasionally  at  meals  he 


130  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

seemed  to  remember  that  a  rejected  lover  ought  not 
to  have  a  good  appetite.  If,  when  he  was  smoking 
in  the  grounds,  he  saw  Mary  approaching,  he  covertly 
dropped  his  cigar.  When  he  knew  that  she  was  sit- 
ting at  a  window  he  would  pace  up  and  down  the 
walk  with  his  head  bent  as  if  life  had  lost  its  interest 
to  him.  By-and-bye  his  mind  wandered  on  these  oc- 
casions to  more  cheerful  matters,  and  he  would  start 
to  find  that  he  had  been  smiling  to  himself  and  swish- 
ing his  cane  playfully,  like  a  man  who  walked  on 
air.  It  might  have  been  said  of  him  that  he  tried 
to  be  miserable  and  found  it  hard  work. 

Will,  who  discovered  that  the  baronet  did  not  know 
what  1.  b.  w.  meant,  could  not,  nevertheless,  despise 
a  man  who  had  shot  lions,  but  he  never  had  quite 
the  same  respect  for  the  king  of  beasts  again.  As 
for  Greybrooke,  he  rather  liked  Sir  Clement,  because 
he  knew  that  Nell  (in  her  own  words)  "loathed, 
hated,  and  despised  "  him. 

Greybrooke  had  two  severe  disappointments  that 
holiday,  both  of  which  were  to  be  traced  to  the  ca- 
pricious Nell.  It  had  dawned  on  him  that  she  could 
not  help  liking  him  a  little  if  she  saw  him  take  a 
famous  jump  over  the  Dome  known  to  legend  as  the 
"Robber's  Leap."  The  robber  had  lost  his  life  in 
trying  to  leap  the  stream,  but  the  captain  practised 
in  the  castle  grounds  until  he  felt  that  he  could  clear 
it.  Then  he  formally  invited  Miss  Meredith  to  come 
and  see  him  do  it,  and  she  told  him  instead  that  he 


THE   GRAND   PASSION?  131 

was  wicked.  The  captain  and  Will  went  back  si- 
lently to  the  castle,  wondering  what  on  earth  she 
would  like. 

Greybrooke's  other  disappointment  was  still  more 
grievous.  One  evening  he  and  Will  returned  to  the 
castle  late  for  dinner — an  offence  the  colonel  found  it 
hard  to  overlook,  although  they  were  going  back  to 
school  on  the  following  day.  Will  reached  the  din- 
ing-room first,  and  his  father  frowned  on  him. 

"You  are  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late,  William," 
said  the  colonel  sternly.  "  Where  have  you  been?" 

Will  hesitated. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  said,  at  last,  "a  man 
called  Angus,  who  was  here  reporting  on  Christmas 
Eve?" 

Mary  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork. 

"A  painfully  powerful-looking  man,"  said  Dow- 
ton,  "  in  hob-nailed  boots.  I  remember  him." 

"Well,  we  have  been  calling  on  him,"  said 
Will. 

"  Calling  on  him,  calling  on  that  impudent  news- 
paper man!"  exclaimed  the  colonel;  "what  do  you 
mean?" 

"  Greybrooke  had  a  row  with  him  some  time  ago, " 
said  Will;  "I  don't  know  what  about,  because  it 
was  private ;  but  the  captain  has  been  looking  for  the 
fellow  for  a  fortnight  to  lick  him — I  mean  punish 
him.  We  came  upon  him  two  days  ago,  near  the 
castle  gates." 


132  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

Here  Will  paused,  as  if  he  would  prefer  to  jump 
what  followed. 

"And  did  your  friend  'lick'  him  then?"  asked  the 
colonel,  at  which  Will  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Sir  Clement. 

"Well,"  said  Will  reluctantly,  "the  fellow  would 
not  let  him."  He — he  lifted  Greybrooke  up  in  his 
arms,  and — and  dropped  him  over  the  hedge." 

Mary  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  The  beggar — I  mean  the  fellow — must  have  mus- 
cles like  ivy-roots,"  Will  blurted  out  admiringly. 

"I  fancy,"  said  Dowton,  "that  I  have  seen  him 
near  the  gates  several  times  during  the  last  week." 

"  Very  likely, "  said  the  colonel  shortly.  "  I  caught 
him  poaching  in  the  Dome  some  months  ago.  There 
is  something  bad  about  that  man." 

"  Papa !"  said  Mary. 

At  this  moment  Greybrooke  entered. 

"  So,  Mr.  Greybrooke,"  said  the  colonel,"  I  hear  you 
have  been  in  Silchester  avenging  an  insult." 

The  captain  looked  at  Will,  who  nodded. 

"I  went  there,"  admitted  Greybrooke,  blushing, 
"  to  horsewhip  a  reporter  fellow,  but  he  had  run  away. " 

"Run  away?" 

"Yes.  Did  not  Will  tell  you?  We  called  at  the 
Mirror  office,  and  were  told  that  Angus  had  bolted 
to  London  two  days  ago." 

"  And  the  worst  of  it,"  interposed  Will,  "  is  that  he 
ran  off  without  paying  his  landlady's  bill." 


THE   GRAND   PASSION  9  133 

"I  knew  that  man  was  a  rascal,"  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

Mary  flushed. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  believe  it,"  repeated  her  father  an- 
grily; "and  why  not,  pray?" 

"Because — because  I  don't,"  said  Mary. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN   FLEET    STREET. 

MARY  was  wrong.  It  was  quite  true  that  Rob 
had  run  away  to  London  without  paying  his  land- 
lady's bill. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  meeting  with  Miss  Ab- 
inger  had  been  to  make  him  undertake  double  work 
and  not  do  it.  Looking  in  at  shop-windows,  where 
he  saw  hats  that  he  thought  would  just  suit  Mary 
(he  had  a  good  deal  to  learn  yet) ,  it  came  upon  him 
that  he  was  wasting  his  time.  Then  he  hurried 
home,  contemptuous  of  all  the  rest  of  Silchester,  to 
write  an  article  for  a  London  paper,  and  when  he 
next  came  to  himself,  half  an  hour  afterward,  he 
was  sitting  before  a  blank  sheet  of  copy-paper.  He 
began  to  review  a  book,  and  found  himself  gazing  at 
a  Christmas  card.  He  tried  to  think  out  the  action 
of  a  government,  and  thought  out  a  ring  on  Miss 
Abinger's  finger  instead.  Three  nights  running  he 
dreamed  that  he  was  married,  and  woke  up  quaking. 

Without  much  misgiving  Rob  heard  it  said  in  Sil- 
chester that  there  was  some  one  staying  at  Dome 
Castle  who  was  to  be  its  mistress'  husband.  On 
discovering  that  they  referred  to  Dowton,  and  not  be- 
134 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  135 

ing  versed  in  the  wonderful  ways  of  woman,  he  told 
himself  that  this  was  impossible.  A  cynic  would 
have  pointed  out  that  Mary  had  now  had  several  days 
in  which  to  change  her  mind.  Cynics  are  persons 
who  make  themselves  the  measure  of  other  people. 

The  philosopher  who  remarked  that  the  obvious 
truths  are  those  which  are  most  often  missed,  was 
probably  referring  to  the  time  it  takes  a  man  to  dis- 
cover that  he  is  in  love.  Women  are  quicker  because 
they  are  on  the  outlook.  It  took  Rob  two  days,  and 
when  it  came  upon  him  checked  his  breathing.  Af- 
ter that  he  bore  it  like  a  man.  Another  discovery  he 
had  to  make  was  that,  after  all,  he  was  nobody  in 
particular.  This  took  him  longer. 

Although  the  manner  of  his  going  to  London  was 
unexpected,  Rob  had  thought  out  solidly  the  induce- 
ments to  go.  Ten  minutes  or  so  after  he  knew  that 
he  wanted  to  marry  Mary  Abinger,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  try  to  do  it.  The  only  obstacles  he  saw  in  his 
way  were  that  she  was  not  in  love  with  him,  and 
the  lack  of  income.  Feeling  that  he  was  an  un- 
common type  of  man  (if  people  would  only  see  it)  he 
resolved  to  remove  this  second  difficulty  first.  The 
saw-mill  and  the  castle  side  by  side  did  not  rise  up 
and  frighten  him,  and  for  the  time  he  succeeded  in 
not  thinking  about  Colonel  Abinger.  Nothing  is 
hopeless  if  we  want  it  very  much. 

Rob  calculated  that  if  he  remained  on  the  Mirror 
for  another  dozen  years  or  so,  and  Mr.  Licquorish 


J.36  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

continued  to  think  that  it  would  not  be  cheaper  to  do 
without  him,  he  might  reach  a  salary  of  £200  per 
annum.  As  that  was  not  sufficient,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  leave  Silchester. 

There  was  only  one  place  to  go  to.  Rob  thought 
of  London  until  he  felt  that  it  was  the  guardian  from 
whom  he  would  have  to  ask  Mary  Abinger;  he  pic- 
tured her  there  during  the  season,  until  London, 
which  he  had  never  seen,  began  to  assume  a  homely 
aspect.  It  was  the  place  in  which  he  was  to  win  or 
lose  his  battle.  To  whom  is  London  much  more? 
It  is  the  clergyman's  name  for  his  church,  the  law- 
yer's for  his  office,  the  politician's  for  St.  Stephen's, 
the  cabman's  for  his  stand. 

There  was  not  a  man  on  the  press  in  Silchester 
who  did  not  hunger  for  Fleet  Street,  but  they  were 
all  afraid  to  beard  it.  They  knew  it  as  a  rabbit- 
warren  ;  as  the  closest  street  in  a  city,  where  the  boot- 
black has  his  sycophants,  and  you  have  to  battle  for 
exclusive  right  to  sweep  a  crossing.  The  fight  for- 
ward had  been  grimmer  to  Rob,  however,  than  to  his 
fellows,  and  he  had  never  been  quite  beaten.  He 
was  alone  in  the  world,  and  poverty  was  like  an  old 
friend.  There  was  only  one  journalist  in  London 
whom  he  knew  even  by  name,  and  he  wrote  to  him 
for  advice.  This  was  Mr.  John  Rorrison,  a  son  of 
the  minister  whose  assistance  had  brought  Rob  to 
Silchester.  Rorrison  was  understood  to  be  practically 
editing  a  great  London  newspaper,  which  is  what  is 


IX   FLEET  STREET.  137 

understood  of  a  great  many  journalists  until  you 
make  inquiries,  but  he  wrote  back  to  Rob  asking  him 
why  he  wanted  to  die  before  his  time.  You  collec- 
tors who  want  an  editor's  autograph  may  rely  upon 
having  it  by  return  of  post  if  you  write  threatening 
to  come  to  London  with  the  hope  that  he  will  do 
something  for  you.  Rorrison's  answer  discomfited 
Rob  for  five  minutes,  and  then  going  out  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Mary  Abinger  in  the  Merediths'  car- 
riage. He  tore  up  the  letter,  and  saw  that  London 
was  worth  risking. 

One  forenoon  Rob  set  out  for  the  office  to  tell  Mr. 
Licquorish  of  his  determination.  He  knew  that  the 
entire  staff  would  think  him  demented,  but  he  could 
not  see  that  he  was  acting  rashly.  He  had  worked 
it  all  out  in  his  mind,  and  even  tranquilly  faced  pos- 
sible starvation.  Rob  was  congratulating  himself  on 
not  having  given  way  to  impulse  when  he  reached 
the  railway  station. 

His  way  from  his  lodgings  to  the  office  led  past 
the  station,  and,  as  he  had  done  scores  of  times  before, 
he  went  inside.  To  Rob  all  the  romance  of  Silchester 
was  concentrated  there ;  nothing  stirred  him  so  much 
as  a  panting  engine ;  the  shunting  of  carriages,  the 
bustle  of  passengers,  the  porters  rattling  to  and  fro 
with  luggage,  the  trains  twisting  serpent-like  into 
the  station  and  stealing  out  in  a  glory  to  be  gone, 
sent  the  blood  to  his  head.  On  Saturday  nights, 
when  he  was  free,  any  one  calling  at  the  station. 


138  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

would  have  been  sure  to  find  him  on  the  platform 
from  which  the  train  starts  for  London.  His  heart 
had  sunk  every  time  it  went  off  without  him. 

Rob  woke  up  from  a  dream  of  Fleet  Street  to  see 
the  porters  slamming  the  doors  of  the  London  train. 
He  saw  the  guard's  hand  upraised,  and  heard  the 
carriages  rattle  as  the  restive  engine  took  them  un- 
awares. Then  came  the  warning  whistle,  and  the 
train  moved  off.  For  a  second  of  time  Rob  felt  that 
he  had  lost  London,  and  he  started  forward.  Some 
one  near  him  shouted,  and  then  he  came  upon  the 
train  all  at  once,  a  door  opened,  and  he  shot  in. 
When  he  came  to  himself,  Silchester  was  a  cloud 
climbing  to  the  sky  behind  him,  and  he  was  on  his 
way  to  London. 

Rob's  first  feeling  was  that  the  other  people  in  the 
carriage  must  know  what  he  had  done.  He  was  re- 
lieved to  find  that  his  companions  were  only  an  old 
gentleman  who  spoke  fiercely  to  his  newspaper  be- 
cause it  was  reluctant  to  turn  inside  out,  a  little  girl 
who  had  got  in  at  Silchester  and  consumed  thirteen 
halfpenny  buns  before  she  was  five  miles  distant 
from  it,  and  a  young  woman,  evidently  a  nurse,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms.  The  baby  was  noisy  for  a  time, 
but  Rob  gave  it  a  look  that  kept  it  silent  for  the  rest 
of  the  journey.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  get 
out  at  the  first  station,  but  when  the  train  stopped  at 
it  he  sat  on.  He  twisted  himself  into  a  corner  to 
count  his  money  covertly,  and  found  that  it  came  to 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  139 

four  pounds  odd.  He  also  took  the  Christmas  card 
from  his  pocket,  but  replaced  it  hastily,  feeling  that 
the  old  gentleman  and  the  little  girl  were  looking  at 
him.  A  feeling  of  elation  grew  upon  him  as  he  saw 
that  whatever  might  happen  afterward  he  must  be 
in  London  shortly,  and  his  mind  ran  on  the  letters 
he  would  write"  to  Mr.  Licquorish  and  his  landlady. 
In  lieu  of  his  ticket  he  handed  over  twelve  shillings 
to  the  guard,  under  whose  eyes  he  did  not  feel  com- 
fortable, and  he  calculated  that  he  owed  his  landlady 
over  two  pounds.  He  would  send  it  to  her  and  ask 
her  to  forward  his  things  to  London.  Mr.  Licquor- 
ish, however,  might  threaten  him  with  the  law  if  he 
did  not  return.  But  then  the  Mirror  owed  Rob  sev- 
eral pounds  at  that  moment,  and  if  he  did  not  claim 
it  in  person  it  would  remain  in  Mr.  Licquorish's 
pocket.  There  was  no  saying  how  far  that  consider- 
ation would  affect  the  editor.  Rob  saw  a  charge  of 
dishonesty  rise  up  and  confront  him,  and  he  drew 
back  from  it.  A  moment  afterward  he  looked  it  in 
the  face,  and  it  receded.  He  took  his  pipe  from  his 
pocket. 

"  This  is  not  a  smoking-carriage,"  gasped  the  little 
girl,  so  promptly  that  it  almost  seemed  as  if  she  had 
been  waiting  her  opportunity  ever  since  the  train 
started.  Rob  looked  at  her.  She  seemed  about  eight, 
but  her  eye  was  merciless.  He  thrust  his  pipe  back 
into  its  case,  feeling  cowed  at  last. 

The  nurse,  who  had  been  looking  at  Rob  and.  blush- 


140  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

ing  when  she  caught  his  eye,  got  out  with  her  charge 
at  a  side  station,  and  he  helped  her  rather  awkwardly 
to  alight.  "  Don't  mention  it,"  he  said,  in  answer  to 
her  thanks. 

"Not  a  word;  I'm  not  that  kind,"  she  replied,  so 
eagerly  that  he  started  back  in  alarm,  to  find  the  lit- 
tle girl  looking  suspiciously  at  him.  - 

As  Rob  stepped  out  of  the  train  at  King's  Cross  he 
realized  sharply  that  he  was  alone  in  the  world.  He 
did  not  know  where  to  go  now,  and  his  heart  sank 
for  a  time  as  he  paced  the  platform  irresolutely,  feel- 
ing that  it  was  his  last  link  to  Silchester.  He  turned 
into  the  booking-office  to  consult  a  time-table,  and 
noticed  against  the  wall  a  railway  map  of  London. 
For  a  long  time  he  stood  looking  at  it,  and  as  he 
traced  the  river,  the  streets  familiar  to  him  by  name, 
the  districts  and  buildings  which  were  household 
words  to  him,  he  felt  that  he  must  live  in  London 
somehow.  He  discovered  Fleet  Street  in  the  map, 
and  studied  the  best  way  of  getting  to  it  from  King's 
Cross.  Then  grasping  his  stick  firmly,  he  took  pos- 
session of  London  as  calmly  as  he  could. 

Rob  never  found  any  difficulty  afterward  in  pick- 
ing out  the  shabby  eating-house  in  which  he  had 
his  first  meal  in  London.  Gray's  Inn  Road  re- 
mained to  him  always  its  most  romantic  street  be- 
cause he  went  down  it  first.  He  walked  into  the  roar 
of  London  in  Holborn,  and  never  forgot  the  alley  into 
which  he  retreated  to  discover  if  he  had  suddenly  be- 


IN  FLEET  STREET  141 

come  deaf.  He  wondered  when  the  crowd  would 
pass.  Years  afterward  he  turned  into  Fetter  Lane, 
and  suddenly  there  came  back  to  his  mind  the  thought 
that  had  held  him  as  he  went  down  it  the  day  he  ar- 
rived in  London. 

A  certain  awe  came  upon  Rob  as  he  went  down 
Fleet  Street  on  the  one  side,  and  up  it  on  the  other. 
He  could  not  resist  looking  into  the  faces  of  the  per- 
sons who  passed  him,  and  wondering  if  they  edited 
the  Times.  The  lean  man  who  was  in  such  a  hurry 
that  wherever  he  had  to  go  he  would  soon  be  there, 
might  be  a  man  of  letters  whom  Rob  knew  by  heart, 
but  perhaps  he  was  only  a  broken  journalist  with  his 
eye  on  half  a  crown.  The  mild-looking  man  whom 
Rob  smiled  at  because,  when  he  was  half-way  across 
the  street,  he  lost  his  head  and  was  chased  out  of 
sight  by  half  a  dozen  hansom  cabs,  was  a  war  cor- 
respondent who  had  been  so  long  in  Africa  that  the 
perils  of  a  London  crossing  unmanned  him.  The 
youth  who  was  on  his  way  home  with  a  pork-chop  in 
his  pocket  edited  a  society  journal.  Rob  did  not 
recognize  a  distinguished  poet  in  a  little  stout  man 
who  was  looking  pensively  at  a  barrowf ul  of  walnuts, 
and  he  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  bearded 
gentleman  who  held  his  head  so  high  must  be  some- 
body in  particular.  Rob  observed  a  pale  young  man 
gazing  wistfully  at  him,  and  wondered  if  he  was  a 
thief  or  a  sub-editor.  He  was  merely  an  aspirant 
who  had  come  to  London  that  morning  to  make  his 


142  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

fortune,  and  he  took  Rob  for  a  leader-writer  at  the 
least.  The  offices,  however,  and  even  the  public 
buildings,  the  shops,  the  narrowness  of  the  streets,  all 
disappointed  Rob.  The  houses  seemed  squeezed  to- 
gether for  economy  of  space,  like  a  closed  concertina. 
Nothing  quite  fulfilled  his  expectations  but  the  big 
letter-holes  in  the  district  postal  offices.  He  had  not 
been  sufficiently  long  in  London  to  feel  its  greatest 
charm,  which  has  been  expressed  in  many  ways  by 
poet,  wit,  business  man  and  philosopher,  but  comes 
to  this,  that  it  is  the  only  city  in  the  world  in  whose 
streets  you  can  eat  penny  buns  without  people's  turn- 
ing round  to  look  at  you. 

In  a  few  days  Rob  was  a  part  of  London.  His 
Silchester  landlady  had  forwarded  him  his  things, 
and  Mr.  Licquorish  had  washed  his  hands  of  him. 
The  editor  of  the  J/zrror's  letter  amounted  to  a  la- 
ment that  a  man  whom  he  had  allowed  to  do  two 
men's  work  for  half  a  man's  wages  should  have 
treated  him  thus.  Mr.  Licquorish,  however,  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  "  forcing"  John  Milton,  and  so 
saving  a  reporter,  and  he  did  not  insist  on  Rob's  re- 
turning. He  expressed  a  hope  that  his  ex-reporter 
would  do  well  in  London,  and  a  fear,  amounting  to 
a  conviction,  that  he  would  not.  But  he  sent  the  three 
pounds  due  to  him  in  wages,  pointing  out,  justifi- 
ably enough,  that,  strictly  speaking,  Rob  owed  him 
a  month's  salary.  Rob  had  not  expected  such  lib- 
erality, and  from  that  time  always  admitted  that 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  143 

there  must  have  been  a  heroic  vein  in  Mr.  Licquorish 
after  all. 

Rob  established  himself  in  a  little  back  room  in 
Islington,  so  small  that  a  fairly  truthful  journalist 
might  have  said  of  it,  in  an  article,  that  you  had  to 
climb  the  table  to  reach  the  fireplace,  and  to  lift  out 
the  easy-chair  before  you  could  get  out  at  the  door. 
The  room  was  over  a  grocer's  shop,  whose  window 
bore  the  announcement :  "  Eggs,  new  laid,  Is.  3d. ; 
eggs,  fresh,  Is.  2d. ;  eggs,  warranted,  Is. ;  eggs,  lOd.  " 
A  shop  across  the  way  hinted  at  the  reputation  of 
the  neighborhood  in  the  polite  placard,  "  Trust  in  the 
Lord:  every  other  person  cash." 

The  only  ornament  Rob  added  to  the  room  was  the 
Christmas  card  in  a  frame.  He  placed  this  on  his 
mantelpiece  and  looked  at  it  frequently,  but  when  he 
heard  his  landlady  coming  he  slipped  it  back  into  his 
pocket.  Yet  he  would  have  liked  at  times  to  have 
the  courage  to  leave  it  there.  Though  he  wanted  to 
be  a  literary  man  he  began  his  career  in  London  with 
a  little  sense,  for  he  wrote  articles  to  editors  instead 
of  calling  at  the  offices,  and  he  had  the  good  fortune 
to  have  no  introductions.  The  only  pressman  who 
ever  made  anything  by  insisting  on  seeing  the  editor 
was  one — a  Scotsman,  no  doubt — who  got  him  alone 
and  threatened  to  break  his  head  if  he  did  not  find 
an  opening  for  him.  The  editor  saw  that  this  was 
the  sort  of  man  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  get 
on,  and  yielded. 


144  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

During  his  first  month  in  London,  Rob  wrote  thirty 
articles,  and  took  them  to  the  different  offices  in  or- 
der to  save  the  postage.  There  were  many  othei  men 
in  the  streets  at  night  doing  the  same  thing.  He  got 
fifteen  articles  back  by  return  of  post,  and  never  saw 
the  others  again.  But  here  was  the  stuff  Rob  was 
made  of.  The  thirty  having  been  rejected,  he  dined 
on  bread-and-cheese,  and  began  the  thirty-first.  It 
was  accepted  by  the  Minotaur,  a  weekly  paper.  Rob 
drew  a  sigh  of  exultation  as  he  got  his  first  proof  in 
London,  and  remembered  that  he  had  written  the 
article  in  two  hours.  The  payment,  he  understood, 
would  be  two  pounds  at  least,  and  at  the  rate  of  two 
articles  a  day,  working  six  days  a  week,  this  would 
mean  over  six  hundred  a  year.  Rob  had  another 
look  at  the  Christmas  card,  and  thought  it  smiled. 
Every  man  is  a  fool  now  and  then. 

Except  to  his  landlady,  who  thought  that  he  dined 
out,  Rob  had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  since  he  arrived 
in  London.  To  celebrate  his  first  proof  he  resolved 
to  call  on  Rorrison.  He  had  not  done  so  earlier  be- 
cause he  thought  that  Rorrison  would  not  be  glad 
to  gee  him.  Though  he  had  kept  his  disappointments 
to  himself,  however,  he  felt  that  he  must  remark 
casually  to  some  one  that  he  was  writing  for  the 
Minotaur. 

Rorrison  had  chambers  at  the  top  of  one  of  the 
Inns  of  Court,  and  as  he  had  sported  his  oak,  Rob 
ought  not  to  have  knocked.  He  knew  no  better,  how- 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  145 

ever,  and  Rcrrison  came  grumbling  to  the  door. 
He  was  a  full-bodied  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  no- 
ticeably heavy  chin,  and  wore  a  long  dressing-gown. 

"  I'm  Angus  from  Silchester,"  Rob  explained. 

Rorrison's  countenance  fell.  His  occupation  largely 
consisted  in  avoiding  literary  young  men,  who,  he 
knew,  were  thirsting  to  take  him  aside  and  ask  him 
to  get  them  sub-editorships. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  gloomily;  "come 
in." 

What  Rob  first  noticed  in  the  sitting-room  was 
that  it  was  all  in  shadow,  except  one  corner,  whose 
many  colors  dazzled  the  eye.  Suspended  over  this 
part  of  the  room  on  a  gas-bracket  was  a  great  Japan- 
ese umbrella  without  a  handle.  This  formed  an 
awning  for  a  large  cane  chair  and  a  tobacco-table, 
which  also  held  a  lamp,  and  Rorrison  had  been  loll- 
ing on  the  chair  looking  at  a  Gladstone  bag  on  the 
hearth-rug  until  he  felt  that  he  was  busy  packing. 

"  Mind  the  umbrella,"  he  said  to  his  visitor. 

The  next  moment  a  little  black  hole  that  had  been 
widening  in  the  Japanese  paper  just  above  the  lamp 
cracked  and  broke,  and  a  tongue  of  flame  swept  up 
the  umbrella.  Rob  sprang  forward  in  horror,  but 
Rorrison  only  sighed. 

"That  makes  the  third  this  week,"  he  said,  "but 
let  it  blaze.     I  used  to  think  they  would  set  the  place 
on  fire,  but  somehow  they  don't  do  it.     Don't  give 
the  thing  the  satisfaction  of  seeming  to  notice  it." 
10 


146  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

The  umbrella  had  been  frizzled  in  a  second,  and 
its  particles  were  already  trembling  through  the  room 
like  flakes  of  snow. 

"  You  have  just  been  in  time  to  find  me,"  Rorrison 
said ;  "  I  start  to-morrow  afternoon  for  Egypt  in  the 
special  correspondent  business." 

"I  envy  you,"  said  Rob,  and  then  told  the  man- 
ner of  his  coming  to  London. 

"  It  was  a  mad  thing  to  do,"  said  Rorrison,  looking 
at  him  not  without  approval,  "  but  the  best  journal- 
ists frequently  begin  in  that  way.  I  suppose  you 
have  been  besieging  the  newspaper  offices  since  you 
arrived.  Any  result?" 

"  I  had  a  proof  from  the  Minotaur  this  evening," 
said  Rob. 

Rorrison  blew  some  rings  of  smoke  into  the  air 
and  ran  his  finger  through  them.  Then  he  turned 
proudly  to  Rob,  and  saw  that  Rob  was  looking  proudly 
at  him. 

"Ah,  what  did  you  say?"  said  Rorrison. 

"The  Minotaur  has  accepted  one  of  my  things," 
.aid  Rob. 

Rorrison  said  "Hum,"  and  then  hesitated. 

"It  is  best  that  you  should  know  the  truth,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  No  doubt  you  expect  to  be  paid  by 
the  Minotaur,  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  little  hope  of 
that— unless  you  dun  them.  A  friend  of  mine  sent 
them  something  lately,  and  Roper  (the  editor,  you 
know)  wrote  asking  him  for  more.  He  sent  two  or 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  147 

three  other  things,  and  then  called  at  the  office,  ex- 
pecting to  be  paid." 

"Was  he  not?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Rorrison,  "Roper  asked 
him.  for  the  loan  of  five  pounds." 

Rob's  face  grew  so  long  that  even  the  hardened 
Rorrison  tried  to  feel  for  him. 

"  You  need  not  let  an  experience  that  every  one 
has  to  pass  through  dishearten  you, "  he  said.  "  There 
are  only  about  a  dozen  papers  in  London  that  are 
worth  writing  for,  but  I  can  give  you  a  good  account 
of  them.  Not  only  do  they  pay  handsomely,  but  the 
majority  are  open  to  contributions  from  any  one. 
Don't  you  believe  what  one  reads  about  newspaper 
rings.  Everything  sent  in  is  looked  at,  and  if  it  is 
suitable  any  editor  is  glad  to  have  it.  Men  fail  to  get 
a  footing  on  the  press  because— well,  as  a  rule,  because 
they  are  stupid." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Rob,  "and 
yet  I  had  thirty  articles  rejected  before  the  Mino- 
taur accepted  that  one." 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  have  another  thirty  rejected  if 
they  are  of  the  same  kind.  You  beginners  seem 
able  to  write  nothing  but  your  views  on  politics,  and 
your  reflections  on  art,  and  your  theories  of  life, 
which  you  sometimes  even  think  original.  Editors 
won't  have  that,  because  their  readers  don't  want  it. 
Every  paper  has  its  regular  staff  of  leader-writers,  and 
what  is  wanted  from  the  outside  is  freshness.  An 


148  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

editor  tosses  aside  your  column  and  a  half  about  evo- 
lution, but  is  glad  to  have  a  paragraph  saying  that 
you  saw  Herbert  Spencer  the  day  before  yesterday 
gazing  solemnly  for  ten  minutes  in  at  a  milliner's 
window.  Fleet  Street  at  this  moment  is  simply  run- 
ning with  men  who  want  to  air  their  views  about 
things  in  general." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Rob  dolefully. 

"  Yes,  and  each  thinks  himself  as  original  as  he 
is  profound,  though  they  have  only  to  meet  to  dis- 
cover that  they  repeat  each  other.  The  pity  of  it  is, 
that  all  of  them  could  get  on  to  some  extent  if  they 
would  send  in  what  is  wanted.  There  is  copy  in 
every  man  you  meet,  and,  as  a  journalist  on  this  stair 
says,  when  you  do  meet  him  you  feel  inclined  to  tear 
it  out  of  him  and  use  it  yourself." 

"What  sort  of  copy?"  asked  Rob. 

"  They  should  write  of  the  things  they  have  seen. 
Newspaper  readers  have  an  insatiable  appetite  for 
knowing  how  that  part  of  the  world  lives  with  which 
they  are  not  familiar.  They  want  to  know  how  the 
Norwegians  cook  their  dinners  and  build  their  houses 
and  ask  each  other  in  marriage." 

"  But  I  have  never  been  out  of  Britain." 

"  Neither  was  Shakespeare.  There  are  thousands 
of  articles  in  Scotland  yet.  You  must  know  a  good 
deal  about  the  Scottish  weavers — well,  there  are  arti- 
cles in  them.  Describe  the  daily  life  of  a  gillie :  'The 
Gillie  at  Home'  is  a  promising  title.  Were  you  ever 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  149 

snowed-np  in  your  saw-mill?  Whether  you  were 
or  not,  there  is  a  seasonable  subject  for  January. 
'Yule  in  a  Scottish  Village'  also  sounds  well,  and 
there  is  a  safe  article  in  a  Highland  gathering." 

"  These  must  have  been  done  before,  though,"  said 
Rob. 

"Of  course  they  have,"  answered  Rorrison;  "but 
do  them  in  your  own  way :  the  public  has  no  mem- 
ory, and  besides,  new  publics  are  always  spring- 
ing up." 

"  I  am  glad  I  came  to  see  you,"  said  Rob,  brighten- 
ing considerably;  "  I  never  thought  of  these  things." 

"  Of  course  you  need  not  confine  yourself  to  them. 
Write  on  politics  if  you  will,  but  don't  merely  say 
what  you  yourself  think;  rather  tell,  for  instance, 
what  is  the  political  situation  in  the  country  parts 
known  to  you.  That  should  be  more  interesting  and 
valuable  than  your  individual  views.  But  I  may  tell 
you  that,  if  you  have  the  journalistic  faculty,  you 
will  always  be  on  the  lookout  for  possible  articles. 
The  man  on  this  stair  I  have  mentioned  to  you  would 
have  had  an  article  out  of  you  before  he  had  talked 
with  you  as  long  as  I  have  done.  You  must  have 
heard  of  Noble  Simms?" 

"Yes,  I  know  his  novel,"  said  Rob;  "I  should  like 
immensely  to  meet  him." 

"I  must  leave  you  an  introduction  to  him,"  said 
Rorrison;  "he  wakens  most  people  up,  though  you 
would  scarcely  think  it  to  look  at  him.  You  see  thi* 


150  WHEN  A   MAX'S  SINGLE. 

pipe  here?  Simms  saw  me  mending  it  with  sealing- 
wax  one  day,  and  two  days  afterward  there  was  an 
article  about  it  in  the  Scalping  Knife.  When  1 
went  off  for  my  holidays  last  summer  I  asked  him  to 
look  in  here  occasionally  and  turn  a  new  cheese  which 
had  been  sent  me  from  the  country.  Of  course  he 
forgot  to  do  it,  but  I  denounced  him  on  my  return  for 
not  keeping  his  solemn  promise,  so  he  revenged  him- 
self by  publishing  an  article  entitled  'Rorrison's  Oil- 
Painting.'  In  this  it  was  explained  that  just  before 
Rorrison  went  off  for  a  holiday  he  got  a  present  of 
an  oil-painting.  Remembering  when  he  had  got  to 
Paris  that  the  painting,  which  had  come  to  him  wet 
from  the  easel,  had  been  left  lying  on  his  table,  he 
telegraphed  to  the  writer  to  have  it  put  away  out 
of  reach  of  dust  and  the  cat.  The  writer  promised 
to  do  so,  but  when  Rorrison  returned  he  found  the 
picture  lying  just  where  he  left  it.  He  rushed  off  to 
his  friend's  room  to  upbraid  him,  and  did  it  so  effect- 
ually that  the  friend  says  in  his  article:  'I  will  never 
do  a  good  turn  for  Rorrison  again !'" 

"But  why,"  asked  Rob,  "did  he  turn  the  cheese 
into  an  oil-painting?" 

"  Ah,  there  you  have  the  journalistic  instinct  again . 
You  see  a  cheese  is  too  plebeian  a  thing  to  form  the 
subject  of  an  article  in  the  Scalping  Knife,  so  Simms 
made  a  painting  of  it.  He  has  had  my  Chinese  um- 
brella from  several  points  of  view  in  three  different 
papers.  When  I  play  on  his  piano  I  put  scraps  of 


IN  FLEET  STREET.  151 

paper  on  the  notes  to  guide  me,  and  he  made  his 
three  guineas  out  of  that.  Once  I  challenged  him  to 
write  an  article  on  a  straw  that  was  sticking  to  the 
sill  of  my  window,  and  it  was  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting things  he  ever  did.  Then  there  was  the  box 
of  old  clothes  and  other  odds  and  ends  that  he  prom- 
ised to  store  for  me  when  I  changed  my  rooms.  He 
sold  the  lot  to  a  hawker  for  a  pair  of  flower-pots,  and 
wrote  an  article  on  the  transaction.  Subsequently 
he  had  another  article  on  the  flower-pots ;  and  when 
I  appeared  to  claim  my  belongings  he  got  a  third 
article  out  of  that." 

"  I  suppose  he  reads  a  great  deal?"  said  Rob. 

"He  seldom  opens  a  book,"  answered  Rorrison; 
"  indeed,  when  he  requires  to  consult  a  work  of  refer- 
ence he  goes  to  the  Strand  and  does  his  reading  at  a 
bookstall.  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  in  the  British 
Museum." 

Rob  laughed. 

"  At  the  same  time,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  think  Mr. 
Noble  Simms  could  get  any  copy  out  of  me." 

Just  then  some  one  shuffled  into  the  passage,  and 
the  door  opened. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MR.     NOBLE     SIMMS. 

THE  new-comer  was  a  young  man  with  an  impas- 
sive face  and  weary  eyes,  who,  as  he  slouched  in, 
described  a  parabola  in  the  air  with  one  of  his  feet, 
which  was  his  way  of  keeping  a  burned  slipper  on. 
Rorrison  introduced  him  to  Rob  as  Mr.  Noble  Simms, 
after  which  Simms  took  himself  into  a  corner  of  the 
room,  like  a  man  who  has  paid  for  his  seat  in  a  rail- 
way compartment  and  refuses  to  be  drawn  into  con- 
versation. He  would  have  been  a  handsome  man 
had  he  had  a  little  more  interest  in  himself. 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  you  were  going  out  to- 
night," said  Rorrison. 

"I  meant  to  go,"  Simms  answered,  "but  when  I 
rang  for  my  boots  the  housekeeper  thought  I  asked 
for  water,  and  brought  it,  so,  rather  than  explain 
matters  to  her,  I  drank  the  water  and  remained  in- 
doors." 

"  I  read  your  book  lately,  Mr.  Simms,"  Rob  said, 
after  he  had  helped  himself  to  tobacco  from  Simms' 
pouch — "  Try  my  tobacco  "  being  the  Press  form  of 
salutation. 

"You  did  not  buy  the  second  volume,  did  you?" 
152 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS.  153 

asked  Simms,  with  a  show  of  interest,  and  Rob  had 
to  admit  that  he  got  the  novel  from  a  library. 

"  Excuse  my  asking  you,"  Simms  continued,  in  his 
painfully  low  voice ;  "  I  had  a  special  reason.  You 
see  I  happened  to  know  that,  besides  what  went  to 
the  libraries,  there  were  in  all  six  copies  of  my  book 
sold.  My  admirer  bought  two,  and  I  myself  bought 
three  and  two-thirds,  so  that  only  one  volume  re- 
mains to  be  accounted  for.  I  like  to  think  that  the 
purchaser  was  a  lady." 

"  But  how  did  it  come  about,"  inquired  Rob,  while 
Rorrison  smoked  on  imperturbably,  "that  the  vol- 
umes were  on  sale  singly?" 

"  That  was  to  tempt  a  public,"  said  Simms  gravely, 
"who  would  not  take  kindly  to  the  three  volumes 
together.  It  is  a  long  story,  though." 

Here  he  paused,  as  if  anxious  to  escape  out  of  the 
conversation. 

"  No  blarney,  Simms, "  expostulated  Rorrison.  "  I 
forgot  to  tell  you,  Angus,  that  this  man  always  means 
(when  he  happens  to  have  a  meaning)  the  reverse  of 
what  he  says." 

"Don't  mind  Rorrison,"  said  Simms  to  Rob.  "It 
was  in  this  way :  My  great  work  of  fiction  did  fairly 
well  at  the  libraries,  owing  to  a  mistake  Mudie  made* 
about  the  name.  He  ordered  a  number  of  copies 
under  the  impression  that  the  book  was  by  the  popu- 
lar novelist,  Simmons,  and  when  the  mistake  was 
found  out  he  was  too  honorable  to  draw  back.  The 


154  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

surplus  copies,  however,  would  not  sell  at  all.  My 
publisher  offered  them  as  Saturday  evening  presents 
to  his  young  men,  but  they  always  left  them  on  their 
desks ;  so  next  he  tried  the  second-hand  book-shops, 
in  the  hope  that  people  from  the  country  would  buy 
the  three  volumes  because  they  looked  so  cheap  at 
two  shillings.  However,  even  the  label  'Published  at 
31s.  6d. :  offered  for  2s.,'  was  barren  of  results.  I 
used  to  stand  in  an  alley  near  one  of  these  book- 
shops, and  watch  the  people  handling  my  novel." 

"But  no  one  made  an  offer  for  it?" 

"  Not  at  two  shillings,  but  when  it  came  down  to 
one-and-sixpence  an  elderly  man  with  spectacles  very 
nearly  bought  it.  He  was  undecided  between  it  and 
a  Trigonometry,  but  in  the  end  he  went  off  with  the 
Trigonometry.  Then  a  young  lady  in  gray  and 
pink  seemed  interested  in  it.  I  watched  her  reading 
the  bit  about  Lord  John  entering  the  drawing-room 
suddenty  and  finding  Henry  on  his  knees,  and  once 
I  distinctly  saw  her  smile." 

"  She  might  have  bought  the  novel  if  only  to  see 
how  it  ended." 

"  Ah,  I  have  always  been  of  opinion  that  she  would 
have  done  so,  had  she  not  most  unfortunately,  in  her 
eagerness  to  learn  wnat  Henry  said  when  he  and 
Eleanor  went  into  the  conservatory,  knocked  a  row 
of  books  over  with  her  elbow.  That  frightened  her, 
and  she  took  to  flight." 

"Most  unfortunate,"  said  Rob  solemnly,  though 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS.  155 

he  was  already  beginning  to  understand  Simms — as 
Simms  was  on  the  surface. 

"  I  had  a  still  greater  disappointment,"  continued 
the  author,  "a  few  days  afterward.  By  this  time 
the  book  was  marked  'Very  Amusing,  Is.,  worth  Is. 
6d. ;'  and  when  I  saw  a  pale-looking  young  man, 
who  had  been  examining  it,  enter  the  shop,  I  thought 
the  novel  was  as  good  as  sold.  My  excitement  was 
intense  when  a  shopman  came  out  for  the  three  vol- 
umes and  carried  them  inside,  but  I  was  puzzled  on 
seeing  the  young  gentleman  depart,  apparently  with- 
out having  made  a  purchase.  Consider  my  feelings 
when  the  shopman  replaced  the  three  volumes  on  his 
shelf  with  the  new  label,  '92-i  pp.,  Sd. ;  worth  Is.'" 

"  Surely  it  found  a  purchaser  now?" 

"Alas!  no.  The  only  man  who  seemed  to  be 
attracted  by  it  at  eightpence  turned  out  to  be  the 
author  of  'John  Mordaunt's  Christmas  Box'  ('Thrill- 
ing! Published  at  6s. ;  offered  at  Is.  3d.'),  who  was 
hanging  about  in  the  interests  of  his  own  work." 

"Did  it  come  down  to  'Sixpence,  worth  nine- 
pence'  ?" 

"  No;  when  I  returned  to  the  spot  next  day  I  found 
volumes  one  and  three  in  the  '2d.  any  vol.'  box,  and 
I  carried  them  away  myself.  What  became  of  vol- 
ume two  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover.  I  rum- 
maged the  box  for  it  in  vain." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Angus,"  remarked  Rorrison, 
"the  novel  is  now  in  its  third  edition." 


156  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"I  always  understood  that  it  had  done  well,"  said 
Rob. 

"The  fourth  time  I  asked  for  it  at  Mudie's,"  said 
Simms,  the  latter  half  of  whose  sentences  were  some- 
times scarcely  audible,  "  I  inquired  how  it  was  doing, 
and  was  told  that  it  had  been  already  asked  for  three 
times.  Curiously  enough  there  is  a  general  impres- 
sion that  it  has  been  a  great  success,  and  for  that  I 
have  to  thank  one  man." 

"  The  admirer  of  whom  you  spoke?" 

"  Yes,  my  admirer,  as  I  love  to  call  him.  I  first 
heard  of  him  as  a  business  gentleman  living  at  Shep- 
herd's Bush,  who  spoke  with  rapture  of  my  novel  to 
any  chance  acquaintances  he  made  on  the  tops  of 
'buses.  Then  my  aunt  told  me  that  a  young  lady 
knew  a  stout  man  living  at  Shepherd's  Bush  who 
could  talk  of  nothing  but  my  book ;  and  on  inquiry 
at  my  publisher's  I  learned  that  a  gentleman  answer- 
ing to  this  description  had  bought  two  copies.  1 
heard  of  my  admirer  from  different  quarters  for  the 
next  month,  until  a  great  longing  rose  in  me  to  see 
him,  to  clasp  his  hand,  to  ask  what  part  of  the  book 
he  liked  best— at  the  least  to  walk  up  and  down 
past  his  windows,  feeling  that  two  men  who  appre- 
ciated each  other  were  only  separated  by  a  pane  of 
glass." 

"  Did  you  ever  discover  who  he  was?" 

"  I  did.  He  lives  at  42  Lavender  Crescent,  Shep- 
herd's Bush,  and  his  name  is  Henry  Gilding." 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS.  157 

"Well?"  said  Rob,  seeing  Simms  pause,  as  if  this 
was  all. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Angus,"  the  author  murmured 
in  reply,  "  that  you  did  not  read  the  powerful  and 
harrowing  tale  very  carefully,  or  you  would  remem- 
ber that  my  hero's  name  was  also  Henry  Gilding." 

"  Well,  but  what  of  that?" 

"There  is  everything  in  that.  It  is  what  made 
the  Shepherd's  Bush  gentleman  my  admirer  for  life. 
He  considers  it  the  strangest  and  most  diverting 
thing  in  his  experience,  and  every  night,  I  believe, 
after  dinner,  his  eldest  daughter  has  to  read  out  to 
him  the  passages  in  which  the  Henry  Gildings  are 
thickest.  He  chuckles  over  the  extraordinary  coin- 
cidence still.  He  could  take  that  joke  with  him  to 
the  seaside  for  a  month,  and  it  would  keep  him  in 
humor  all  the  time." 

"Have  done,  Simms,  have  done,"  said  Rorrison; 
"  Angus  is  one  of  us,  or  wants  to  be,  at  all  events. 
The  Minotaur  is  printing  one  of  his  things,  and  I 
have  been  giving  him  some  sage  advice." 

"Any  man,"  said  Simms,  "will  do  well  on  the 
Press  if  he  is  stupid  enough ;  even  Rorrison  has  done 
well." 

"I  have  just  been  telling  him,"  responded  Rorri- 
son, "that  the  stupid  men  fail." 

"I  don't  consider  you  a  failure,  Rorrison,"  said 
Simms  in  mild  surprise.  "  What  stock  in  trade  a 
literary  hand  requires,  Mr.  Angus,  is  a  fire  to  dry  his 


158  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

writing  at,  jam  or  honey  with  which  to  gum  old 
stamps  on  to  envelopes,  and  an  antimacassar." 

"  An  antimacassar?"  Rob  repeated. 

"Yes;  you  pluck  the  thread  with  which  to  sew 
your  copy  together  out  of  the  antimacassar.  When 
my  antimacassars  are  at  the  wash  I  have  to  have  a 
holiday." 

"Well,  well,  Simms,"  said  Rorrison,  "I  like  you 
best  when  you  are  taciturn." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Simms. 

"You  might  give  Angus  some  advice  about  the 
likeliest  paper  for  which  to  write.  Loudon  is  new  to 
him." 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Simms,  more  se- 
riously, "  that  advice  in  such  a  matter  is  merely  talk 
thrown  away.  If  you  have  the  journalistic  instinct, 
which  includes  a  determination  not  to  be  beaten  as 
•well  as  an  aptitude  for  selecting  the  proper  subjects, 
you  will  by-and-bye  find  an  editor  who  believes  in  you. 
Many  men  of  genuine  literary  ability  have  failed  on 
the  Press  because  they  did  not  have  that  instinct, 
and  they  have  attacked  journalism  in  their  books  in 
consequence." 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  what  the  journalis- 
tic instinct  precisely  is,"  Rob  said,  "and  still  less 
whether  I  possess  it." 

"Ah,  just  let  me  put  you  through  your  paces," 
replied  Simms.  "  Suppose  yourself  up  for  an  exam, 
in  journalism,  and  that  I  am  your  examiner.  Ques- 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS.  159 

tionOne:  'The  house  was  soon  on  fire;  much  sym- 
pathy is  expressed  with  the  sufferers,'  Can  you 
translate  that  into  newspaper  English?" 

"Let  me  see,"  answered  Rob,  entering  into  the 
spirit  of  the  examination.  "How  would  this  do: 
'In  a  moment  the  edifice  was  enveloped  in  shooting 
tongues  of  flame  ;  the  appalling  catastrophe  has 
plunged  the  whole  street  into  the  gloom  of  night'?" 

"Good.  Question  Two:  A  man  hangs  himself; 
what  is  the  technical  heading  for  this?" 

"Either  'Shocking  Occurrence'  or  'Rash  Act.'" 

"  Question  Three :  l Pabulum, ' '  Cela  va  sans  dire, ' 
'Par  excellence,'  'Neplus  ultra.'  What  are  these? 
Are  there  any  more  of  them?" 

"They  are  scholarship,"  replied  Rob,  "and  there 
are  two  more,  namely,  'tour  de  force'  and  'terra 
finna.'  '' 

"  Question  Four :  A.  (a  soldier)  dies  at  6  P.  M.  with 
his  back  to  the  foe.  B.  (a  philanthropist)  dies  at  1 
A.  M.  :  which  of  these,  speaking  technically,  would 
you  call  a  creditable  death?" 

"  The  soldier's,  because  time  was  given  to  set  it." 

"  Quite  right.  Question  Five  :  Have  you  ever 
known  a  newspaper  which  did  not  have  the  largest 
circulation  in  its  district,  and  was  not  the  most  in- 
fluential advertising  medium?" 

"Never." 

"  Question  Six :  Mr.  Gladstone  rises  to  speak  in  the 
House  of  Commons  at  2  A.  M.  What  would  be  the 


160  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

sub-editor's  probable  remark  on  receiving  the  open- 
ing words  of  the  speech,  and  how  would  he  break 
the  news  to  the  editor?  How  would  the  editor  be 
likely  to  take  it?" 

"I  prefer,"  said  Rob,  "not  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion." 

"Well,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  Simms,  tiring  of  the 
examination,  "you  have  passed  with  honors." 

The  conversation  turned  to  Rorrison's  coming 
work  in  Egypt,  and  by-and-bye  Simms  rose  to  go. 

"Your  stick,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Angus?"  he  said,  tak- 
ing Rob's  thick  staff  from  a  corner. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rob,  " it  has  only  a  heavy  knob, 
you  see,  for  a  handle,  and  a  doctor  once  told  me  that 
if  I  continued  to  press  so  heavily  on  it  I  might  suffer 
from  some  disease  in  the  palm  of  the  hand." 

"I  never  heard  of  that,"  said  Simms,  looking  up 
for  the  first  time  since  he  entered  the  room.  Then 
he  added,  "  You  should  get  a  stick  like  Rorrison's, 
It  has  a  screw-handle  which  he  keeps  loose,  so  that 
the  slightest  touch  knocks  it  off.  It  is  called  the 
compliment-stick,  because  if  Rorrison  is  in  the  com- 
pany of  ladies  he  contrives  to  get  them  to  hold  it. 
This  is  in  the  hope  that  they  will  knock  the  handle 
off,  when  Rorrison  bows  and  remarks  exultingly  that 
the  stick  is  like  its  owner — when  it  came  near  them 
it  lost  its  head.  He  has  said  that  to  fifteen  ladies 
now,  and  has  a  great  reputation  for  gallantry  in  con- 
sequence. Good-night." 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS.  161 

"Well,  he  did  not  get  any  copy  out  of  me,"  said 
Rob. 

"  Simms  is  a  curious  fellow,"  Rorrison  answered. 
"  Though  you  might  not  expect  it,  he  has  written 
some  of  the  most  pathetic  things  I  ever  read,  but  he 
wears  his  heart  out  of  sight.  Despite  what  he  says, 
too,  he  is  very  jealous  for  the  Press'  good  name. 
He  seemed  to  take  to  you,  so  I  should  not  wonder 
though  he  were  to  look  you  up  here  some  night." 

"  Here?     How  do  you  mean?" 

"  Why,  this.  I  shall  probably  be  away  from  Lon- 
don for  some  months,  and  as  I  must  keep  on  my 
rooms,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  occupy  them. 
The  furniture  is  mine,  and  you  would  be  rent  free, 
except  that  the  housekeeper  expects  a  few  shillings  a 
week  for  looking  after  things.  What  do  you  think?" 

Rob  could  have  only  one  thought  as  he  compared 
these  comfortable  chambers  to  his  own  bare  room, 
and  as  Rorrison,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  a  warm 
liking  to  him,  pressed  the  point,  arguing  that  as  the 
rent  must  be  paid  at  any  rate  the  chambers  were  bet- 
ter occupied,  he  at  last  consented  on  the  understand- 
ing that  they  could  come  to  some  arrangement  on 
Rorrison's  return. 

"It  will  please  my  father,  too,"  Rorrison  added, 
"to  know  that  you  are  here.  I  always  remember 
that  had  it  not  been  for  him  you  might  never  have 
gone  on  to  the  Press." 

They   sat   so  late  talking  this  matter  over  that 


162  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Rob  eventually  stayed  all  night,  Rorrison  having  in 
his  bedroom  a  couch  which  many  journalists  had 
slept  on. 

Next  morning  the  paper  whose  nickname  is  the 
Scalping  Knife  was  served  up  with  breakfast,  and 
the  first  thing  Rob  saw  in  it  was  a  leaderette  about  a 
disease  generated  in  the  palm  of  the  hand  by  walk- 
ing-sticks with  heavy  knobs  for  handles. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Rorrison,  "that  Simms  would 
make  his  half -guinea  out  of  you." 

When  Rorrison  went  down  to  Simms'  chambers 
later  in  the  day,  however,  to  say  that  he  was  leaving 
Rob  tenant  of  his  rooms,  he  was  laughing  at  some- 
thing else. 

"All  during  breakfast,"  he  said  to  Simms,  "I  no- 
ticed that  Angus  was  preoccupied,  and  anxious  to 
say  something  that  he  did  not  like  to  say.  At  last 
he  blurted  it  out,  with  a  white  face,  and  what  do  you 
think  it  was?" 

Simms  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,"  said  Rorrison,  "  it  was  this.  He  has  been 
accustomed  to  go  down  on  his  knees  every  night  to 
say  his  prayers,  as  we  used  to  do  at  school,  but  when 
he  saw  that  I  did  not  do  it  he  did  not  like  to  do  it 
either.  I  believe  it  troubled  him  all  night,  for  he 
looked  haggard  when  he  rose. " 

"  He  told  you  this?" 

"Yes;  he  said  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself,"  said 


MR.  NOBLE  SIMMS  163 

Rorrison,  smiling.  "You  must  remember  he  is 
country-bred. " 

"You  are  a  good  fellow,  Rorrison,"  said  Simms 
gravely,  "to  put  him  into  your  rooms,  but  I  don't 
see  what  you  are  laughing  at." 

"Why,"  said  Rorrison,  taken  aback,  "I  thought 
you  would  see  it  in  the  same  light." 

"Not  I,"  said  Simms;  "but  let  me  tell  you  this,  I 
shall  do  what  I  can  for  him.  I  like  your  Angus." 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE     WIGWAM. 

ROB  had  a  tussle  for  it,  but  he  managed  to  live 
down  his  first  winter  in  London,  and  May-day  saw 
him  sufficiently  prosperous  and  brazen  to  be  able  to 
go  into  restaurants  and  shout  out  "Waiter."  After 
that  nothing  frightened  him  but  barmaids. 

For  a  time  his  chief  struggle  had  been  with  his 
appetite,  which  tortured  him  when  he  went  out  in 
the  afternoons.  He  wanted  to  dine  out  of  a  paper 
bag,  but  his  legs  were  reluctant  to  carry  him  past  a 
grill-room.  At  last  a  compromise  was  agreed  upon. 
If  he  got  a  proof  over-night,  he  dined  in  state  next 
day ;  if  it  was  only  his  manuscript  that  was  returned 
to  him,  he  thought  of  dining  later  in  the  week.  For 
a  long  time  his  appetite  had  the  worst  of  it.  It  was 
then  that  he  became  so  great  an  authority  on  penny 
buns.  His  striking  appearance  always  brought  the 
saleswomen  to  him  promptly,  and  sometimes  he 
blushed,  and  often  he  glared,  as  he  gave  his  order. 
When  they  smiled  he  changed  his  shop. 

There  was  one  terrible  month  when  he  wrote  from 

morning  to  night  and  did  not  make  sixpence.     He 
164 


THE   WIGWAM.  165 

lived  by  selling  his  books,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time. 
Even  on  the  last  day  of  that  black  month  he  did  not 
despair.  When  he  wound  up  his  watch  at  night 
before  going  hungry  to  bed,  he  never  remembered 
that  it  could  be  pawned.  The  very  idea  of  entering 
a  pawnshop  never  struck  him.  Many  a  time  when 
his  rejected  articles  came  back  he  shook  his  fist  in 
imagination  at  all  the  editors  in  London,  and  saw 
himself  twisting  their  necks  one  by  one.  To  think 
of  a  different  death  for  each  of  them  exercised  his 
imagination  and  calmed  his  passion,  and  he  won- 
dered whether  the  murder  of  an  editor  was  an  indict- 
able offence.  When  he  did  not  have  ten  shillings, 
"  I  will  get  on,"  cried  Rob  to  himself.  "  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  be  starved  out  of  a  big  town  like  this.  I'll 
make  my  mark  yet.  Yes,"  he  roared,  while  the 
housekeeper,  at  the  other  side  of  the  door,  quaked 
to  hear  him,  "  I  will  get  on ;  I'm  not  going  to  be 
beaten. "  He  was  waving  his  arms  fiercely  when  the 
housekeeper  knocked.  "Come  in,"  said  Rob,  sub- 
siding meekly  into  his  chair.  Before  company  he 
seemed  to  be  without  passion,  but  they  should  have 
seen  him  when  he  was  alone.  One  night  he  dreamed 
that  he  saw  all  the  editors  in  London  being  conveyed 
(in  a  row)  to  the  hospital  on  stretchers.  •  A  gratified 
smile  lit  up  his  face  as  he  slept,  and  his  arm,  going 
out  suddenly  to  tip  one  of  the  stretchers  over,  hit 
against  a  chair.  Rob  jumped  out  of  bed  and  kicked 
the  chair  round  the  room.  By-and-bye,  when  his 


166  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

articles  were  occasionally  used,  he  told  his  proofs 
that  the  editors  were  capital  fellows. 

The  only  acquaintances  he  made  were  with  jour- 
nalists who  came  to  his  chambers  to  see  Rorrison, 
who  was  now  in  India.  They  seemed  just  as  pleased 
to  see  Rob,  and  a  few  of  them,  who  spoke  largely 
of  their  connection  with  literature,  borrowed  five 
shillings  from  him.  To  his  disappointment  Noble 
Simms  did  not  call,  though  he  sometimes  sent  up 
notes  to  Rob  suggesting  likely  articles,  and  the 
proper  papers  to  which  to  send  them.  "I  would 
gladly  say  'Use  my  name,'"  Simms  wrote,  "but  it  is 
the  glory  of  anonymous  journalism  that  names  are 
nothing  and  good  stuff  everything.  I  assure  you 
that  on  the  Press  it  is  the  men  who  have  it  in  them 
that  succeed,  and  the  best  of  them  become  the  edi- 
tors." He  advised  Rob  to  go  to  the  annual  supper 
given  by  a  philanthropic  body  to  discharged  crimi- 
nals, and  write  an  account  of  the  proceedings ;  and 
told  him  that  when  anything  remarkable  happened 
in  London  he  should  at  once  do  an  article  (in  the 
British  Museum)  on  the  times  the  same  thing  had 
happened  before.  "Don't  neglect  eclipses,"  he  said, 
"  nor  heavy  scoring  at  cricket  matches  any  more  than 
what  look  like  signs  of  the  times,  and  always  try  to 
be  first  in  the  field."  He  recommended  Rob  to 
gather  statistics  of  all  kinds,  from  the  number  of 
grandchildren  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe  had  to 
the  jockeys  who  had  ridden  the  Derby  winner  more 


THE   WIGWAM.  167 

than  once,  and  suggested  the  collecting  of  anecdotes 
about  celebrities,  which  everybody  would  want  to 
read  if  his  celebrities  chanced  to  die,  as  they  must 
do  some  day ;  and  he  assured  him  that  there  was  a 
public  who  liked  to  be  told  every  year  what  the  poets 
had  said  about  May.  Rob  was  advised  never  to  let 
a  historic  house  disappear  from  London  without 
compiling  an  article  about  its  associations,  and  to  be 
ready  to  run  after  the  fire  brigade.  He  was  told  that 
an  article  on  flagstone  artists  could  be  made  interest- 
ing. "  But  always  be  sure  of  your  facts,"  Simms 
said.  "  Write  your  articles  over  again  and  again, 
avoid  fine  writing  as  much  as  dishonest  writing,  and 
never  spoil  a  leaderette  by  drawing  it  out  into  a 
leader.  By-and-bye  you  may  be  able  to  choose  the 
kind  of  subject  that  interests  yourself,  but  at  present 
put  your  best  work  into  what  experienced  editors  be- 
lieve interests  the  general  public." 

Rob  found  these  suggestions  valuable,  and  often 
thought,  as  he  passed  Simms'  door,  of  going  in  to 
thank  him,  but  he  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that 
Simms  did  not  want  him.  Of  course  Rob  was  wrong. 
Simms  had  feared  at  first  to  saddle  himself  with  a 
man  who  might  prove  incapable,  and,  besides,  he 
generally  liked  those  persons  best  whom  he  saw  least 
frequently. 

For  the  great  part  of  the  spring  Simms  was  out  of 
town ;  but  one  day  after  his  return  he  met  Rob  on  the 
stair,  and  took  him  into  his  chambers.  The  sitting- 


168  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

room  had  been  originally  furnished  with  newspaper 
articles  ;  Simms,  in  his  younger  days,  when  he 
wanted  a  new  chair  or  an  etching  having  written  an 
article  to  pay  for  it,  and  then  pasted  the  article  on 
the  back.  He  had  paid  a  series  on  wild  birds  for 
his  piano,  and  at  one  time  leaderettes  had  even  been 
found  in  the  inside  of  his  hats.  Odd  books  and  mag- 
azines lay  about  his  table,  but  they  would  not  in  all 
have  filled  a  library  shelf ;  and  there  were  no  news- 
papers visible.  The  blank  wall  opposite  the  fireplace 
showed  in  dust  that  a  large  picture  had  recently  hung 
there.  It  was  an  oil-painting  which  a  month  earlier 
had  given  way  in  the  cord  and  fallen  behind  the 
piano,  where  Simms  was  letting  it  lie. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Rob,  who  had  heard  from  many 
quarters  of  Simms'  reputation,  "that  you  are  con- 
tent to  put  your  best  work  into  newspapers." 

"Ah,"  answered  Simms,  "I  was  ambitious  once, 
but,  as  I  told  you,  the  grand  book  was  a  failure. 
Nowadays  I  gratify  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
I  am  not  stupid  enough  ever  to  be  a  gceat  man." 

"  I  wish  you  would  begin  something  really  big," 
said  Rob  earnestly. 

"I  feel  safer,"  replied  Simms,  "finishing  some- 
thing really  little." 

He  turned  the  talk  to  Rob's  affairs,  as  if  his  own 
wearied  him,  and,  after  hesitating,  offered  to  "  place  " 
a  political  article  by  Rob  with  the  editor  of  the 
Morning  Wire. 


THE   WIGWAM.  169 

"  I  don't  say  he'll  use  it,  though,"  he  added. 

This  was  so  much  the  work  Rob  hungered  for  that 
he  could  have  run  upstairs  and  begun  it  at  once. 

"  Why,  you  surely  don't  work  on  Saturday  nights?" 
said  his  host,  who  was  putting  on  an  overcoat. 

"Yes,"  said  Rob,  "there  is  nothing  else  to  do.  I 
know  no  one  well  enough  to  go  to  him.  Of  course  I 
do  nothing  on  the  Sab — I  mean  on  Sundays." 

"  No?"     Then  how  do  you  pass  your  Sundays? 

"  I  go  to  church,  and  take  a  long  walk,  or  read." 

"  And  you  never  break  this  principle — when  a  cap- 
ital idea  for  an  article  strikes  you  on  Sunday  even- 
ing, for  instance?" 

"Well,"  said  Rob,  "when  that  happens  I  wait  un- 
til twelve  o'clock  strikes,  and  then  begin." 

Perceiving  nothing  curious  in  this,  Bob  did  not 
look  up  to  see  Simms'  mouth  twitching. 

"On  those  occasions,"  asked  Simms,  "when  you 
are  waiting  for  twelve  o'clock,  does  the  evening  not 
seem  to  pass  very  slowly?" 

Then  Rob  blushed. 

"At  all  events,  come  with  me  to-night,"  said 
Simms,  "  to  my  club.  I  am  going  now  to  the  Wigwam, 
and  we  may  meet  men  there  worth  your  knowing." 

The  Wigwam  is  one  of  the  best-known  literary 
clubs  in  London,  and  as  they  rattled  to  it  in  a  han- 
som, the  driver  of  which  was  the  broken  son  of  a 
peer,  Rob  remarked  that  its  fame  had  even  travelled 
to  his  saw-mill, 


170  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"It  has  such  a  name,"  said  Simms  in  reply,  "that 
I  feel  sorry  for  any  one  who  is  taken  for  the  first  time. 
The  best  way  to  admire  the  Wigwam  is  not  to  go 
to  it." 

"  I  always  thought  it  was  considered  the  pleasant- 
est  club  in  London,"  Rob  said. 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Simms,  who  was  a  member  of  half 
a  dozen ;  "  most  of  the  others  are  only  meant  for  sit- 
ting in  on  padded  chairs  and  calling  out  'sh-sh'  when 
any  other  body  speaks." 

At  the  Wigwam  there  is  a  special  dinner  every 
Saturday  evening,  but  it  was  over  before  Simms  and 
Rob  arrived,  and  the  members  were  crowding  into 
the  room  where  great  poets  have  sat  beating  time  with 
churchwardens,  while  great  artists  or  coming  Cab- 
inet ministers  sang  songs  that  were  not  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. A  popular  novelist,  on  whom  Rob  gazed 
with  a  veneration  that  did  not  spread  to  his  compan- 
ion's face,  was  in  the  chair  when  they  entered,  and 
the  room  was  full  of  literary  men,  actors,  and  artists, 
of  whom,  though  many  were  noted,  many  were  also 
needy.  Here  was  an  actor  who  had  separated  from 
his  wife  because  her  notices  were  better  than  his; 
and  another  gentleman  of  the  same  profession  took 
Rob  aside  to  say  that  he  was  the  greatest  tragedian 
on  earth  if  he  could  only  get  a  chance.  Rob  did  not 
know  what  to  reply  when  the  eminent  cartoonist  sit- 
ting next  him,  whom  he  had  looked  up  to  for  half  a 
dozen  years,  told  him,  by  way  of  opening  a  conver- 


THE    WIGWAM.  171 

sation,  that  he  had  just  pawned  his  watch.  They 
seemed  so  pleased  with  poverty  that  they  made  as 
much  of  a  little  of  it  as  they  could,  and  the  wisest 
conclusion  Rob  came  to  that  night  was  not  to  take 
them  too  seriously.  It  was,  however,  a  novel  world, 
to  find  one's  self  in  all  of  a  sudden,  one  in  which  every 
body  was  a  wit  at  his  own  expense.  Even  Simms, 
who  always  upheld  the  Press  when  any  outsider  ran 
it  down,  sang  with  applause  some  verses  whose  point 
lay  in  their  being  directed  against  himself.  They 
began: 

When  clever  pressmen  write  this  way, 

"  As  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude  would  say, " 

Is  it  because  they  think  lie  would. 

And  have  they  read  a  line  of  Froude? 

Or  is  it  only  that  they  fear 

The  comment  they  have  made  is  queer, 

And  that  they  either  must  erase  it, 

Or  say  it's  Mr.  Froude  who  says  it? 

Every  one  abandoned  himself  to  the  humor  of  the 
evening,  and  as  song  followed  song,  or  was  wedged 
between  entertainments  of  other  kinds,  the  room  filled 
with  smoke  until  it  resembled  London  in  a  fog. 

By-and-bye  a  sallow-faced  man  mounted  a  table  to 
show  the  company  how  to  perform  a  remarkable  trick 
with  three  hats.  He  got  his  hats  from  the  company, 
and  having  looked  at  them  thoughtfully  for  some 
minutes,  said  that  he  had  forgotten  the  way. 

"That,"  said  Simms,  mentioning  a  well-known 

journalist,  "  is  K He  can  never  work  unless  his 

pockets  are  empty,  and  he  would  not  be  looking  so 


172  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

doleful  at  present  if  he  was  not  pretty  well  off.  He 
goes  from  room  to  room  in  the  house  he  lodges  in,  ac- 
cording to  the  state  of  his  finances,  and  when  you  call 
on  him  you  have  to  ask  at  the  door  which  floor  he  is 
on  to-day.  One  week  you  find  him  in  the  drawing- 
room,  the  next  in  the  garret." 

A  stouter  and  brighter  man  followed  the  hat  enter- 
tainment with  a  song,  which  he  said  was  considered 
by  some  of  his  friends  a  recitation. 

"There  was  a  time,"  said  Simms,  who  was  held  a 
terrible  person  by  those  who  took  him  literally,  "  when 
that  was  the  saddest  man  I  knew.  He  was  so  sad 
that  the  doctors  feared  he  would  die  of  it.  It  all 
came  of  his  writing  for  Punch." 

"  How  did  they  treat  him?"  Rob  asked. 

"  Oh,  they  quite  gave  him  up,  and  he  was  wasting 
away  visibly,  when  a  second-rate  provincial  journal 
appointed  him  its  London  correspondent,  and  saved 
his  life." 

"Then  he  was  sad,"  asked  Rob,  "  because  he  was 
out  of  work?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Simms  gravely,  "he  was 
always  one  of  the  successful  men,  but  he  could  not 
laugh." 

"And  he  laughed  when  he  became  a  London 
correspondent?" 

"  Yes ;  that  restored  his  sense  of  humor.  But  lis- 
ten to  this  song;  he  is  a  countryman  of  yours  who 
sings  it." 


THE   WIGWAM.  173 

A  man,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  cut  out  of  a 
granite  block,  and  who  at  the  end  of  each  verse  thrust 
his  pipe  back  into  his  mouth,  sang  in  a  broad  accent, 
that  made  Rob  want  to  go  nearer  him,  some  verses 
about  an  old  university : 

"Take  off  the  straoger's  hat!"— The  shout 

We  raised  in  fifty-nine 
Assails  my  ears,  with  careless  flout, 

And  now  the  hat  is  mine. 
It  seems  a  day  since  I  was  here, 

A  student  slim  and  hearty, 
And  see,  the  boys  around  me  cheer, 

"The  ancient  looking  party  !" 

Rough  horseplay  did  not  pass  for  wit 

When  Rae  and  Mill  were  there ; 
I  see  a  lad  from  Oxford  sit 

In  Blackie's  famous  chair. 
And  Rae,  of  all  our  men  the  one 

We  most  admired  in  quad 
(I  had  this  years  ago) ,  has  gone 

Completely  to  the  bad. 

In  our  debates  the  moral  Mill 

Had  infinite  address, 
Alas  !  since  then  he's  robbed  a  till, 

And  now  he's  on  the  Press. 
And  Tommy  Robb,  the  ploughman's  son, 

Whom  all  his  fellows  slighted, 
From  Rae  and  Mill  the  prize  has  won, 

For  Tommy's  to  be  knighted. 

A  lanky  loon  is  in  the  seat 

Filled  once  by  manse-bred  Sheen, 
Who  did  not  care  to  mix  with  Peate, 

A  bleacher  who  had  been. 
But  watch  the  whirligig  of  time, 

Brave  Peate  became  a  preacher, 
His  name  is  known  in  every  clime, 

And  Sheen  is  now  the  bleacher. 


174  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

McMillan,  who  the  medals  carried. 

Is  now  a  judge,  'tis  said, 
And  curly-headed  Smith  is  married, 

And  Williamson  is  dead. 
Old  Phil  and  I,  who  shared  our  books, 

Now  very  seldom  meet, 
And  when  we  do,  with  frowning  looks 

We  passed  by  in  the  street. 

The  college  rings  with  student  slang 

As  in  the  days  of  yore, 
The  self -same  notice  boards  still  hang 

Upon  the  class-room  door : 
An  essay  (I  expected  that) 

On  Burns  this  week,  or  Locke, 
"A  theory  of  creation"  at 

Precisely  seven  o'clock. 

There's  none  here  now  who  knows  my  name: 

My  place  is  far  away, 
And  yet  the  college  is  the  same, 

Not  older  by  a  day. 
But  curious  looks  are  cast  at  me, 

Ah !  herein  lies  the  change : 
All  else  is  as  it  used  to  be, 

And  I  alone  am  strange  ! 

"Now,  you  could  never  guess,"  Simms  said  to 
Rob,  "what  profession  our  singer  belongs  to." 

"  He  looks  more  like  a  writer  than  an  artist,"  said 
Rob,  who  had  felt  the  song  more  than  the  singer  did. 

"  Well,  he  is  more  an  artist  than  a  writer,  though, 
strictly  speaking,  he  is  neither.  To  that  man  is  the 
honor  of  having  created  a  profession.  He  furnishes 
rooms  for  interviews." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Rob. 

"It  is  in  this  way,"  Simms  explained.  "Inter- 
views in  this  country  are  of  recent  growth,  but 


THE   WIGWAM.  175 

it  has  been  already  discovered  that  what  the  pub- 
lic want  to  read  is  not  so  much  a  celebrity's  views 
on  any  topic  as  a  description  of  his  library,  his  dress- 
ing-gown, or  his  gifts  from  the  king  of  Kashabahoo. 
Many  of  the  eminent  ones,  however,  are  very  un- 
interesting in  private  life,  and  have  no  curiosities  to 
show  their  interviewer  worth  writing  about,  so  your 
countryman  has  started  a  profession  of  providing 
curiosities  suitable  for  celebrities  at  from  five  pounds 
upward,  each  article,  of  course,  having  a  guaran- 
teed story  attached  to  it.  The  editor,  you  observe, 
intimates  his  wish  to  include  the  distinguished  per- 
son in  his  galaxy  of  'Men  of  the  Moment,'  and  then 
the  notability  drops  a  line  to  our  friend  saying  that  he 
wants  a  few  of  his  rooms  arranged  for  an  interview. 
Your  countryman  sends  the  goods,  arranges  them 
effectively,  and  puts  the  celebrity  up  to  the  rem- 
iniscences he  is  to  tell  about  each." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Rob,  with  a  light  in  his  eye  "  that 
the  interviewer  is  as  much  taken  in  by  this  as — well, 
say,  as  I  have  been  by  you?" 

"To  the  same  extent,"  admitted  Simms  sol- 
emnly. "  Of  course  he  is  not  aware  that  before  the 
interview  appears  the  interesting  relics  have  all  been 
packed  up  and  taken  back  to  our  Scottish  friend's 
show-rooms." 

The  distinguished  novelist  in  the  chair  told  Rob 
(without  having  been  introduced  to  him)  that  his 
books  were  beggaring  his  publishers. 


176  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"What  I  make  my  living  off,"  he  said,  "is  the 
penny  dreadful,  complete  in  one  number.  I  manu- 
facture two  a  week  without  hindrance  to  other  em- 
ployment, and  could  make  it  three  if  I  did  not  have 
a  weak  wrist." 

It  was  thus  that  every  one  talked  to  Rob,  who,  be- 
cause he  took  a  joke  without  changing  countenance, 
was  considered  obtuse.  He  congratulated  one  man  on 
his  article  on  chaffinches  in  the  Evening  Firebrand, 
and  the  writer  said  he  had  discovered,  since  the  paper 
appeared,  that  the  birds  he  described  were  really  lin- 
nets. Another  man  was  introduced  to  Rob  as  the 
writer  of  "In  Memoriam." 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman  himself,  on  seeing  Rob 
start,  "my  name  is  not  Tennyson.  It  is,  indeed, 
Murphy.  Tennyson  and  the  other  fellows,  who  are 
ambitious  of  literary  fame,  pay  me  so  much  a  page 
for  poems  to  which  they  put  their  names." 

At  this  point  the  applause  became  so  deafening 
that  Simms  and  Rob,  who  had  been  on  their  way  to 
another  room,  turned  back.  An  aged  man,  with  a 
magnificent  head,  was  on  his  feet  to  describe  his  first 
meeting  with  Carlyle. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Rob,  and  Simms  mentioned 
the  name  of  a  celebrity  only  a  little  less  renowned 
than  Carlyle  himself.  To  Rob  it  had  been  one  of  the 
glories  of  London  that  in  the  streets  he  sometimes 
came  suddenly  upon  world-renowned  men,  but  he  now 
looked  upon  this  eminent  scientist  for  the  first  time. 


THE   WIGWAM.  177 

The  celebrity  was  there  as  a  visitor,  for  the  Wigwam 
cannot  boast  quite  such  famous  members  as  he. 

The  septuagenarian  began  his  story  well.  He  de- 
scribed the  approach  to  Craigenputtock  on  a  warm 
summer  afternoon,  and  the  emotions  that  laid  hold 
of  him  as,  from  a  distance,  he  observed  the  sage 
seated  astride  a  low  dyke,  flinging  stones  into  the 
duck-pond.  The  pedestrian  announced  his  name  and 
the  pleasure  with  which  he  at  last  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  greatest  writer  of  the  day;  and  then  the 
genial  author  of  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  annoyed  at  being 
disturbed,  jumped  off  the  dyke  and  chased  his  visitor 
round  and  round  the  duck-pond.  The  celebrity  had 
got  thus  far  in  his  reminiscence  when  he  suddenly 
stammered,  bit  his  lip  as  if  enraged  at  something^ 
and  then  trembled  so  much  that  he  had  to  be  led  back 
to  his  seat. 

"  He  must  be  ill,"  whispered  Rob  to  Simms. 

"  It  isn't  that, "  answered  Simms ;  "  I  fancy  he  must 
have  caught  sight  of  Wingfield." 

Rob's  companion  pointed  to  a  melancholy-looking 
man  in  a  seedy  coat,  who  was  sitting  alone,  glaring 
at  the  celebrity. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Rob. 

"He  is  the  great  man's  literary  executor,"  Simms 
replied;  "come  along  with  me  and  hearken  to  his 
sad  tale;  he  is  never  loth  to  tell  it." 

They  crossed  over  to  Wingfield,  who  received  them 
dejectedly. 


178  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"  This  is  not  a  matter  I  care  to  speak  of,  Mr.  An- 
gus," said  the  sorrowful  man,  who  spoke  of  it,  how- 
ever, as  frequently  as  he  could  find  a  listener.  "  It 
is  now  seven  years  since  that  gentleman" — pointing 
angrily  at  the  celebrity,  who  glared  in  reply — "  ap- 
pointed me  his  literary  executor.  At  the  time  I 
thought  it  a  splendid  appointment,  and  by  the  end 
of  two  years  I  had  all  his  remains  carefully  edited 
and  his  biography  ready  for  the  Press.  He  was  an 
invalid  at  that  time,  supposed  to  be  breaking  up  fast ; 
yet  look  at  him  now." 

"  He  is  quite  vigorous  in  appearance  now,"  said  Rob. 

"Oh,  I've  given  up  hope,"  continued  the  sad  man 
dolefully. 

"Still,"  remarked  Simms,"  I  don't  know  that  you 
could  expect  him  to  die  just  for  your  sake.  I  only 
venture  that  as  an  opinion,  of  course." 

"I  don't  ask  that  of  him,"  responded  Wingfield. 
"  I'm  not  blaming  him  in  any  way ;  all  I  say  is  that 
he  has  spoiled  my  life.  Here  have  I  been  waiting, 
waiting  for  five  years,  and  I  seem  farther  from  pub- 
lication than  ever." 

"  It  is  hard  on  you,"  said  Simms. 

"But  why  did  he  break  down  in  his  story,"  asked 
Rob,  "when  he  saw  you?" 

"  Oh,  the  man  has  some  sense  of  decency  left,  I 
suppose,  and  knows  that  he  has  ruined  my  career." 

"  Is  the  Carlylean  reminiscence  taken  from  the  bi- 
ography?" inquired  Simms. 


THE    WIGWAM.  179 

"That  is  the  sore  point,"  answered  Wingfield 
sullenly.  "  He  used  to  shun  society,  but  now  he  goes 
to  clubs,  banquets,  and  'At  Homes,'  and  tells  the 
choice  things  in  the  memoir  at  every  one  of  them. 
The  book  will  scarcely  be  worth  printing  now." 

"I  dare  say  he  feels  sorry  for  you,"  said  Simms, 
"and  sees  that  he  has  placed  you  in  a  false  position." 

"He  does  in  a  w.ay,"  replied  the  literary  executor, 
"  and  yet  I  irritate  him.  When  he  was  ill  last  De- 
cember I  called  to  ask  for  him  every  day,  but  he  mis- 
took my  motives ;  and  now  he  is  frightened  to  be  left 
alone  with  me." 

"It  is  a  sad  business,"  said  Simms,  "but  we  all 
have  our  trials." 

"  I  would  try  to  bear  up  better,"  said  the  sad  man, 
"if  I  got  more  sympathy." 

It  was  very  late  when  Simms  and  Rob  left  the 
Wigwam,  yet  they  were  among  the  first  to  go. 

"  When  does  the  club  close?"  Rob  asked,  as  they 
got  into  the  fresh  air. 

"No  one  knows,"  answered  Simms  wearily,  "but 
I  believe  the  last  man  to  go  takes  in  the  morning's 
milk." 

In  the  weeks  that  followed  Rob  worked  hard  at 
political  articles  for  the  Wire,  and  at  last  began  to 
feel  that  he  was  making  some  headway.  He  had 
not  the  fatal  facility  for  scribbling  that  distinguishes 
some  journalists,  but  he  had  felt  life  before  he  took 
to  writing.  His  style  was  forcible  if  not  superfine, 


180  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

and  he  had  the  faculty  that  makes  a  journalist,  of 
only  seeing  things  from  one  point  of  view.  The  suc- 
cessful political  writer  is  blind  in  one  eye 

Though  one  in  three  of  Rob's  articles  was  now 
used,  the  editor  of  the  Wire  did  not  write  to  say  that 
he  liked  them,  and  Rob  never  heard  any  one  mention 
them.  Even  Simms  would  not  read  them,  but  then 
Simms  never  read  any  paper.  He  got  his  news 
from  the  placards,  and  bought  the  Scalping  Knife, 
not  to  read  his  own  articles,  but  to  measure  them  and 
calculate  how  much  he  would  get  for  them.  Then 
he  dropped  them  into  the  gutter. 

Some  weeks  had  passed  without  Rob's  seeing 
Simms,  when  one  day  he  got  a  letter  that  made  him 
walk  round  and  round  his  table  like  a  circus  horse. 
It  was  from  the  editor  of  the  Wire  asking  him  to  be 
in  readiness  to  come  to  the  office  any  evening  he 
might  be  wanted  to  write.  This  looked  like  a  step 
toward  an  appointment  on  the  staff  if  he  gave  satis- 
faction (a  proviso  which  he  took  complacently),  and 
Rob's  chest  expanded,  till  the  room  seemed  quite 
small.  He  pictured  Thrums  again.  He  jumped  to 
Mary  Abinger,  and  then  he  distinctly  saw  himself  in 
the  editorial  chair  of  the  Times.  He  was  lying  back 
in  it,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  giving  a  Cabinet  minis- 
ter five  minutes. 

Nearly  six  months  had  passed  since  Rob  saw  Miss 
Abinger — a  long  time  for  a  young  man  to  remain  in 
love  with  the  same  person.  Of  late  Rob  had  been 


THE    WIGWAM,  181 

less  given  to  dreaming  than  may  be  expected  of  a 
man  who  classifies  the  other  sex  into  one  particular 
lady  and  others,  but  Mary  was  coming  to  London  in 
the  early  summer,  and  when  he  thought  of  summer 
he  meant  Mary.  Rob  was  oftener  in  Piccadilly  in 
May  than  he  had  been  during  the  previous  four 
months,  and  he  was  always  looking  for  somebody. 
It  was  the  third  of  June,  a  day  to  be  remembered  in 
his  life,  that  he  heard  from  the  editor  of  the  Wire. 
At  5  o'clock  he  looked  upon  that  as  what  made  it  a 
day  of  days,  but  he  had  changed  his  mind  by  a  quar- 
ter past. 

Rob  had  a  silk  hat  now,  and  he  thrust  it  on  his 
head,  meaning  to  run  downstairs  to  tell  Simms  of  his 
good  fortune.  He  was  in  the  happy  frame  of  mind 
that  makes  a  man  walk  round  improbabilities,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  he  came  to  London  he  felt  confident 
of  the  future,  without  becoming  despondent  imme- 
diately afterward.  The  future,  like  the  summer, 
was.  an  allegory  for  Miss  Abinger.  For  the  moment 
Rob's  heart  filled  with  compassion  for  Simms.  The 
one  thing  our  minds  will  not  do  is  leave  our  neigh- 
bors alone,  and  Rob  had  some  time  before  reached 
the  conclusion  that  Simms'  nature  had  been  twisted 
by  a  disappointment  in  love.  There  was  nothing 
else  that  could  account  for  his  fits  of  silence,  his  in 
difference  to  the  future.  He  was  known  to  have 
given  the  coat  off  his  back  to  some  miserable  creature 
in  the  street,  and  to  have  been  annoyed  when  he  dis- 


182  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

covered  that  a  friend  saw  him  do  it.  Though 
Simms'  walls  were  covered  with  engravings,  Rob 
remembered  all  at  once  that  there  was  not  a  female 
figure  in  one  of  them. 

To  sympathize  with  others  in  a  love  affair  is  de- 
lightful to  every  one  who  feels  that  he  is  all  right 
himself.  Rob  went  down  to  Simms'  rooms  with  a 
joyous  step  and  a  light  heart.  The  outer  door  stood 
ajar,  and  as  he  pushed  it  open  he  heard  a  voice  that 
turned  his  face  white.  From  where  he  stood  para- 
lyzed he  saw  through  the  dark  passage  into  the  sit- 
ting-room. Mary  Abinger  was  standing  before  the 
fireplace,  and  as  Rob's  arm  fell  from  the  door,  Simms 
bent  forward  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ROB  IS   STRUCK  DOWN. 

ROB  turned  from  Simms'  door  and  went  quietly 
downstairs,  looking  to  the  beadle,  who  gave  him  a 
good-evening  at  the  mouth  of  the  inn,  like  a  man 
going  quietly  to  his  work.  He  could  not  keep  his 
thoughts.  They  fell  about  him  in  sparks,  raised  by 
a  wheel  whirling  so  fast  that  it  seemed  motionless. 

Sleep-walkers  seldom  come  to  damage  until  they 
awake,  and  Rob  sped  on,  taking  crossings  without  a 
halt;  deaf  to  the  shouts  of  cabmen,  blind  to  their 
gesticulations.  When  you  have  done  Oxford  Circus 
you  can  do  anything ;  but  he  was  not  even  brought  to 
himself  there,  though  it  is  all  savage  lands  in  twenty 
square  yards.  For  a  time  he  saw  nothing  but  that 
scene  in  Simms'  chambers,  which  had  been  photo- 
graphed on  his  brain.  The  light  of  his  life  had  sud- 
denly been  turned  out,  leaving  him  only  the  last 
thing  he  saw  to  think  about. 

By-and-bye  he  was  walking  more  slowly,  laugh- 
ing at  himself.  Since  he  met  Mary  Abinger  she  had 
lived  so  much  in  his  mind  that  he  had  not  dared  to 
think  of  losing  her.  He  had  only  given  himself  fits 

of  despondency  for  the  pleasure  of  dispelling  them. 
183 


184  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Now  all  at  once  he  saw  without  prejudice  the  Rob 
Angus  who  had  made  up  his  mind  to  carry  off  this 
prize,  and  he  cut  such  a  poor  figure  that  he  smiled 
grimly  at  it.  He  realized  as  a  humorous  conception 
that  this  uncouth  young  man  who  was  himself  must 
have  fancied  that  he  was,  on  the  whole,  less  unworthy 
of  Miss  Abinger  than  were  most  of  the  young  men 
she  was  likely  to  meet.  With  the  exaggerated  hu- 
mility that  comes  occasionally  to  men  in  his  condi- 
tion, without,  however,  feeling  sufficiently  at  home 
to  remain  long,  he  felt  that  there  was  everything  in 
Simms  a  girl  could  find  lovable,  and  nothing  in  him- 
self. He  was  so  terribly  open  that  any  one  could 
understand  him,  while  Simms  was  such  an  enigma 
as  a  girl  would  love  to  read.  His  own  clumsiness 
contrasted  as  disastrously  with  Simms'  grace  of 
manner  as  his  blunt  talk  compared  with  Simms' 
wit.  Not  being  able  to  see  himself  with  the  eyes  of 
others,  Rob  noted  only  one  thing  in  his  favor,  his 
fight  forward;  which  they,  knowing,  for  instance, 
that  he  was  better  to  look  at  than  most  men,  would 
have  considered  his  chief  drawback.  Rob  in  his 
calmer  moments  had  perhaps  as  high  an  opinion  of 
his  capacity  as  the  circumstances  warranted,  but  he 
never  knew  that  a  good  many  ladies  felt  his  presence 
when  he  passed  them. 

Most  men  are  hero  and  villain  several  times  in  a 
day,  but  Rob  went  through  the  whole  gamut  of  sensa- 
tions in  half  an  hour,  hating  himself  the  one  moment 


ROB   IS   STRUCK  DOWN.  185 

for  what  seemed  another's  fault  the  next,  fancying 
now  that  he  was  blessing  the  union  of  Mary  with 
the  man  she  cared  for,  and,  again,  that  he  had  Simms 
by  the  throat.  He  fled  from  the  fleeting  form  of 
woman,  and  ran  after  it. 

Simms  had  deceived  him,  had  never  even  men- 
tioned Silchester,  had  laughed  at  the  awakening  that 
was  coming  to  him.  All  these  months  they  had 
been  waiting  for  Mary  Abinger  together,  and  Simms 
had  not  said  that  when  she  came  it  would  be  to  him. 
Then  Rob  saw  what  a  foolish  race  these  thoughts 
ran  in  his  brain,  remembering  that  he  had  only  seen 
Simms  twice  for  more  than  a  moment,  and  that  he 
himself  had  never  talked  of  Silchester.  He  scorned 
his  own  want  of  generosity,  and  recalled  his  solici- 
tude for  Simms'  welfare  an  hour  before. 

Rob  saw  his  whole  future  life  lying  before  him. 
The  broken-looking  man  with  the  sad  face  aged 
before  his  time,  who  walked  alone  up  Fleet  Street, 
was  Rob  Angus,  who  had  come  to  London  to  be 
happy.  Simms  would  ask  him  sometimes  to  his 
house  to  see  her,  but  it  was  better  that  he  should  not 
go.  She  would  understand  why,  if  her  husband  did 
not.  Her  husband !  Rob  could  not  gulp  down  the 
lump  in  his  throat.  He  rushed  on  again,  with  noth- 
ing before  him  but  that  picture  of  Simms  kissing  her. 

Simms  was  not  worthy  of  her.  Why  had  he 
always  seemed  an  unhappy,  disappointed  man  if  the 
one  thing  in  the  world  worth  striving  for  was  his? 


186  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Rob  stopped  abruptly  in  the  street  with  the  sudden 
thought,  Was  it  possible  that  she  did  not  care  for 
Simms?  Could  that  scene  have  had  any  other  mean- 
ing? He  had  once  heard  Simms  himself  say  that 
you  never  knew  what  a  woman  meant  by  anything 
until  she  told  you,  and  probably  not  even  then.  But 
he  saw  again  the  love  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up 
into  Simms'  face.  All  through  his  life  he  would 
carry  that  look  with  him.  They  took  no  distinct 
shape,  but  wild  ways  of  ending  his  misery  coursed 
through  his  brain,  and  he  looked  on  calmly  at  hig 
own  funeral.  A  terrible  stolidity  seized  him,  and  he 
conceived  himself  a  monster  from  whom  the  capacity 
to  sympathize  had  gone.  Children  saw  his  face  and 
fled  from  him. 

He  had  left  England  far  behind,  and  dwelt  now 
among  wild  tribes  who  had  not  before  looked  upon  a 
white  face.  Their  sick  came  to  him  for  miracles,  and 
he  either  cured  them  or  told  them  to  begone.  He 
was  not  sure  whether  he  was  a  fiend  or  a  missionary. 

Then  something  remarkable  happened,  which 
showed  that  Rob  had  not  mistaken  his  profession. 
He  saw  himself  in  the  editorial  chair  that  he  had  so 
often  coveted,  and  Mary  Abinger,  too,  was  in  the 
room.  Always  previously  when  she  had  come  be- 
tween him  and  the  paper  he  had  been  forced  to  lay 
down  his  pen,  but  now  he  wrote  on  and  on,  and  she 
seemed  to  help  him.  He  was  describing  the  scene 
that  he  had  witnessed  in  Simms'  chambers,  describ- 


ROB  IS  STRUCK  DOWN.  -        187 

ing  it  so  vividly  that  he  heard  the  great  public  discuss- 
ing his  article  as  if  it  were  an  Academy  picture. 
His  passion  had  subsided,  and  the  best  words  formed 
slowly  in  his  brain.  He  was  hesitating  about  the 
most  fitting  title,  when  some  one  struck  against  him, 
and  as  he  drew  his  arm  over  his  eyes  he  knew  with 
horror  that  he  had  been  turning  Mary  Abinger  into 
copy. 

For  the  last  time  that  night  Rob  dreamed  again,  and 
now  it  was  such  a  fine  picture  he  drew  that  he  looked 
upon  it  with  sad  complacency.  Many  years  had 
passed.  He  was  now  rich  and  famous.  He  passed 
through  the  wynds  of  Thrums,  and  the  Auld  Lichts 
turned  out  to  gaze  at  him.  He  saw  himself  sign- 
ing checks  for  all  kinds  of  charitable  objects,  and 
appearing  in  the  subscription  lists,  with  a  grand 
disregard  for  glory  that  is  not  common  to  phi- 
lanthropists, as  X.  Y.  Z.  or  "A  well-wisher." 
His  walls  were  lined  with  books  written  by  himself, 
and  Mary  Abinger  (who  had  not  changed  in  the  least 
with  the  years)  read  them  proudly,  knowing  that 
they  were  all  written  for  her.  (Simms  somehow  had 
not  fulfilled  his  promise.)  The  papers  were  full  of 
his  speech  in  the  House  of  Commons  the  night  before, 
and  he  had  declined  a  seat  in  the  Cabinet  from  con- 
scientious motives.  His  imagination  might  soon 
have  landed  him  master  in  the  Mansion  House,  had 
it  not  deserted  him  when  he  had  most  need  of  it.  He 
fell  from  his  balloon  like  a  stone.  Before  him  he  saw 


188  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

the  blank  years  that  had  to  be  traversed  without  any 
Mary  Abinger,  and  despair  filled  his  soul.  All  the 
horrible  meaning  of  the  scene  he  had  fled  from  came 
to  him  like  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  and  he  stood 
with  it,  glaring  at  it,  in  the  middle  of  a  roaring 
street.  Three  hansoms  shaved  him  by  an  inch,  and 
the  fourth  knocked  him  senseless. 

An  hour  later  Simms  was  lolling  in  his  chambers 
smoking,  his  chair  tilted  back  until  another  inch 
would  have  sent  him  over  it.  His  gas  had  been 
blazing  all  day  because  he  had  no  blotting-paper,  and 
the  blinds  were  nicely  pulled  down  because  Mary 
Abinger  and  Nell  were  there  to  do  it.  They  were 
sitting  on  each  side  of  him,  and  Nell  had  on  a  round 
cap,  about  which  Simms  subsequently  wrote  an  ar- 
ticle. Mary's  hat  was  larger  and  turned  up  at  one 
side;  the  fashion  which  arose  through  a  carriage- 
wheel's  happening  to  pass  over  the  hat  of  a  leader  of 
fashion  and  make  it  perfectly  lovely.  Beyond  the 
hats  one  does  not  care  to  venture,  but  out  of  fairness 
to  Mary  and  Nell  it  should  be  said  that  there  were  no 
shiny  little  beads  on  their  dresses. 

They  had  put  on  their  hats  to  go,  and  then  they 
had  sat  down  again  to  tell  their  host  a  great  many 
things  that  they  had  told  him  already.  Even  Mary, 
who  was  perfect  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  took  a  con- 
siderable time  to  tell  a  story,  and  expected  it  to  have 
more  point  when  it  ended  than  was  sometimes  the 
case.  Simms,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  let  the 


ROB  IS   STRUCK  DOWN.  189 

laughter  ripple  over  his  head,  and  drowsily  heard  the 
details  of  their  journey  from  Silchester  afresh.  Mary 
had  come  up  with  the  Merediths  on  the  previous 
day,  and  they  were  now  staying  at  the  Langham 
Hotel.  They  would  only  be  in  town  for  a  few  weeks ; 
"just  to  oblige  the  season,"  Nell  said,  for  she  had 
inveigled  her  father  into  taking  a  house-boat  on  the 
Thames,  and  was  certain  it  would  prove  delightful. 
Mary  was  to  accompany  them  there,  too,  having  first 
done  her  duty  to  society,  and  Colonel  Abinger  was 
setting  off  shortly  for  the  continent.  In  the  middle 
of  her  prattle  Nell  distinctly  saw  Simms'  head  nod, 
as  if  it  was  loose  in  its  socket.  She  made  a  mourn- 
ful grimace. 

Simms  sat  up. 

"Your  voices  did  it,"  he  explained,  unabashed. 
They  are  as  soothing  to  the  jaded  journalist  as  the 
streams  that  murmur  through  the  fields  in  June." 

"  Cigars  are  making  you  stupid,  Dick,"  said  Mary; 
"  I  do  wonder  why  men  smoke." 

"  I  have  often  asked  myself  that  question,"  thought- 
fully answered  Simms,  whom  it  is  time  to  call  by  his 
real  name  of  Dick  Abinger.  "I  know  some  men 
who  smoke  because  they  might  get  sick  otherwise 
when  in  the  company  of  smokers.  Others  smoke 
because  they  began  to  do  so  at  school,  and  are  now 
afraid  to  leave  off.  A  great  many  men  smoke  for 
philanthropic  motives,  smoking  enabling  them  to 
work  harder,  and  so  being  for  their  family's  good. 


190  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

At  picnics  men  smoke  because  it  is  the  only  way  to 
keep  the  midges  off  the  ladies.  Smoking  keeps  you 
cool  in  summer  and  warm  in  winter,  and  is  an  excel- 
lent disinfectant.  There  are  even  said  to  be  men  who 
admit  that  they  smoke  because  they  like  it,  but  for 
my  own  part  I  fancy  I  smoke  because  I  forget  not 
to  do  so." 

"Silly  reasons,"  said  Nell.  If  there  was  one  pos- 
sible improvement  she  could  conceive  in  Dick  it  was 
that  he  might  make  his  jests  a  little  easier. 

"It  is  revealing  no  secret,"  murmured  Abinger  in 
reply,  "  to  say  that  drowning  men  clutch  at  straws. " 

Mary  rose  to  go  once  more,  and  sat  down  again, 
for  she  had  remembered  something  else. 

"Do  you  know,  Dick,"  she  said,  "that  your  two 
names  are  a  great  nuisance.  On  our  way  to  London 
yesterday  there  was  an  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's in  the  carriage,  and  he  told  us  he  knew  Noble 
Simms  well." 

"Yes,"  said  Nell,  "and  that  this  Noble  Simms  was 
an  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  married  for  thirty 
years.  We  said  we  knew  Mr.  Noble  Simms,  and 
that  he  was  a  barrister,  and  he  laughed  at  us.  So 
you  see  some  one  is  trading  on  your  name." 

"Much  good  may  it  do  him,"  said  Abinger  gen- 
erously. 

"  But  it  is  horrid,"  said  Nell,  "  that  we  should  have 
to  listen  to  people  praising  Noble  Simms'  writings, 


ROB  IS  STRUCK   DOWN.  191 

and  not  be  allowed  to  say  that  he  is  Dick  Abinger 
in  disguise." 

"It  must  be  very  hard  on  you,  Nell,  to  have  to 
keep  a  secret,"  admitted  Dick,  "but  you  see  I  must 
lead  two  lives  or  be  undone.  In  the  Temple  you  will 
see  the  name  of  Richard  Abinger,  barrister-at-law, 
but  in  Frobisher's  Inn  he  is  J.  Noble  Simms." 

"  I  don't  see  the  good  of  it,"  said  Nell. 

"My  ambition,  you  must  remember,"  explained 
Dick,  "  is  to  be  Lord  Chancellor  or  Lord  Chief  Jus- 
tice, I  forget  which,  but  while  I  wait  for  that  post  I 
must  live,  and  I  live  by  writings  (which  are  all  dead 
the  morning  after  they  appear).  Now  such  is  the 
suspicion  with  which  literature  is  regarded  by  the 
legal  mind  that,  were  it  known  I  wrote  for  the  Press, 
my  chance  of  the  Lord  Chancellorship  would  cease 
to  be  a  moral  certainty.  The  editor  of  the  Scalping 
Knife  has  not  the  least  notion  that  Noble  Simms  is 
the  rising  barrister  who  has  been  known  to  make  as 
much  by  the  law  as  a  guinea  in  a  single  month.  In- 
deed, only  my  most  intimate  friends,  some  of  whom 
practise  the  same  deception  themselves,  are  aware 
that  the  singular  gifts  of  Simms  and  Abinger  are 
united  in  the  same  person." 

"  The  housekeeper  here  must  know?"  asked  Mary. 

"No,  it  would  hopelessly  puzzle  her,"  said  Dick; 
"she  would  think  there  was  something  uncanny 
about  it,  and  so  she  is  happy  in  the  belief  that  the 


192  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

letters  which  occasionally  come  addressed  to  Abinger 
are  forwarded  hy  me  to  that  gentleman's  abode  in 
the  Temple." 

"It  is  such  an  ugly  name,  Noble  Simms,"  said 
Nell;  "I  wonder  why  you  selected  it." 

"  It  is  ugly,  is  it  not?"  said  Dick.  "  It  struck  me 
at  the  time  as  the  most  ridiculous  name  I  was  likely 
to  think  of,  and  so  I  chose  it.  Such  a  remark- 
able name  sticks  to  the  public  mind,  and  that  is 
fame." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  to  get  the  two  girls  the  cab 
that  would  take  them  back  to  the  hotel. 

"There  is  some  one  knocking  at  the  door,"  said 
Mary. 

"Come  in,"  murmured  Ahinger. 

The  housekeeper  opened  the  door,  but  half  shut  it 
again  when  she  saw  that  Dick  was  not  alone.  Then 
she  thought  of  a  compromise  between  telling  her  bus- 
iness and  retiring. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Simms,"  she  said  apologeti- 
cally, "would  you  speak  to  me  a  moment  in  the 
passage?" 

Abinger  disappeared  with  her,  and  when  he  re- 
turned the  indifferent  look  had  gone  from  his  face. 

"  Wait  for  me  a  few  minutes,"  he  said ;  "  a  man  up- 
stairs, one  of  the  best  fellows  breathing,  has  met 
with  an  accident,  and  I  question  if  he  has  a  friend  in 
London.  I  am  going  up  to  see  him." 

"  Poor  fellow !"  said  Mary  to  Nell,  after  Dick  had 


ROB  IS  STRUCK  DOWN.  193 

gone;  "fancy  his  lying  here  for  weeks  without  any 
one's  going  near  him  but  Dick." 

"  But  how  much  worse  it  would  be  without  Dick !" 
said  Nell. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  is  a  barrister?"  said  Mary. 

"I  think  he  will  be  a  journalist  rather,"  Nell  said 
thoughtfully,  "  a  tall,  dark,  melancholy-looking  man, 
and  I  should  not  wonder  though  he  had  a  broken 
heart." 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  more  serious  than  that,"  said  Mary. 

Nell  set  off  on  a  trip  round  the  room,  remarking 
with  a  profound  sigh  that  it  must  be  awful  to  live 
alone  and  have  no  one  to  speak  to  for  whole  hours  at 
a  time.  I  should  go  mad,"  she  said,  in  such  a  tone 
of  conviction  that  Mary  did  not  think  of  question- 
ing it. 

Then  Nell,  who  had  opened  a  drawer  rather  guilt- 
ily, exclaimed,  "Oh,  Mary!" 

A  woman  can  put  more  meaning  into  a  note  of  ex- 
clamation than  a  man  can  pack  in  a  sentence.  It 
costs  Mr.  Jones,  for  instance,  a  long  message  sim- 
ply to  telegraph  to  his  wife  that  he  is  bringing  a 
friend  home  to  dinner,  but  in  a  sixpenny  reply  Mrs. 
Jones  can  warn  him  that  he  had  better  do  no  such 
thing ;  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  for 
thinking  of  it,  that  he  must  make  some  excuse  to  his 
friend,  and  that  he  will  hear  more  of  this  when  he 
gets  home.  Nell's  "  Oh,  Mary !"  signified  that  chaos 

was  come. 
13 


194  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Mary  hastened  round  the  table,  and  found  her 
friend  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Well,"  said  Mary,  "that  is  one  of  your  letters  to 
Dick,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Nell  tragically;  "but  fancy  his 
keeping  my  letters  lying  about  carelessly  in  a  drawer 
—and — and,  yes,  using  them  as  scribbling  paper !" 

Scrawled  across  the  envelopes  in  a  barely  decipher- 
able handwriting  were  such  notes  as  these :  "  School- 
boys smoking  master's  cane-chair,  work  up;"  "Re- 
turn of  the  swallows  (poetic  or  humorous?);"  "My 
First  Murder  (magazine?);"  "Better  do  something 
pathetic  for  a  change." 

There  were  tears  in  Nell's  eyes. 

"This  comes  of  prying,"  said  Mary. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  prying,"  said  Nell;  "I  only  opened 
it  by  accident.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.  I  can't  say 
anything  about  them  to  him,  because  he  might  think 
I  had  opened  his  drawer  to — to  see  what  was  in  it— 
which  is  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  would  think  of 
doing.  "Oh,  Mary,"  she  added  woefully,  "what  do 
you  think?" 

"  I  think  you  are  a  goose,"  said  Mary  promptly. 

"Ah,  you  are  so  indifferent,"  Nell  said,  surrender- 
ing her  position  all  at  once.  "  Now  when  I  see  a 
drawer  I  am  quite  unhappy  until  I  know  what  is  in 
it,  especially  if  it  is  locked.  When  we  lived  oppo- 
site the  Burtons  I  was  miserable  because  they  always 
kept  the  blind  of  one  of  their  windows  down.  If  I 


ROB  IS   STRUCK  DOWN.  195 

had  been  a  boy  I  would  have  climbed  up  to  see  why 
they  did  it.  "Ah!  that  is  Dick;  I  know  his  step." 

She  was  hastening  to  the  door,  when  she  remem- 
bered the  letters,  and  subsided  primly  into  a  chair. 

"Well?"  asked  Mary,  as  her  brother  re-entered 
with  something  in  his  hand. 

"The  poor  fellow  has  had  a  nasty  accident,"  said 
Dick;  "run  over  in  the  street,  it  seems.  He  ought 
to  have  been  taken  to  the  infirmary,  but  they  got  a 
letter  with  his  address  on  it  in  his  pocket,  and  brought 
him  here." 

"  Has  a  doctor  seen  him?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  hardly  make  out  from  the  housekeeper 
what  he  said.  He  was  gone  before  I  went  up.  There 
are  some  signs,  however,  of  what  he  did.  The  poor 
fellow  seems  to  have  been  struck  on  the  head." 

Mary  shuddered,  understanding  that  some  oper- 
ation had  been  found  necessary. 

"  Did  he  speak  to  you?"  asked  Nell. 

"He  was  asleep,"  said  Dick,  "but  talking  more 
than  he  does  when  he  is  awake." 

"  He  must  have  been  delirious,"  said  Mary. 

"  One  thing  I  can't  make  out,"  Dick  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  his  companions.  "  He  mumbled  my 
name  to  himself  half  a  dozen  times  while  I  was  up- 
stairs." 

"But  is  there  anything  remarkable  in  that,"  asked 
Mary,  "  if  he  has  so  few  friends  in  London?" 

"What  I  don't  understand,"  explained  Dick,  "is 


196  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

that  the  word  I  caught  was  Abinger.  Now,  I  am 
quite  certain  that  he  only  knew  me  as  Noble  Simms." 

"Some  one  must  have  told  him  your  real  name," 
said  Mary.  "  Is  he  asleep  now?" 

"That  reminds  me  of  another  thing,"  said  Dick, 
looking  at  the  torn  card  in  his  hand.  "Just  as  I 
was  coming  away  he  staggered  off  the  couch  where 
he  is  lying  to  his  desk,  opened  it,  and  took  out  this 
card.  He  glared  at  it,  and  tore  it  in  two  before  I 
got  him  back  to  the  couch." 

There  were  tears  in  Nell's  eyes  now,  for  she  felt 
that  she  understood  it  all. 

"  It  is  horrible  to  think  of  him  alone  up  there,"  she 
cried.  "  Let  us  go  up  to  him,  Mary." 

Mary  hesitated. 

"I  don't  think  it  would  be  the  thing,"  she  said, 
taking  the  card  from  Nell's  hand.  She  started 
slightly  as  she  looked  at  it,  and  then  became  white. 

"What  is  his  name,  Dick?"  she  faltered,  in  a  voice 
that  made  Nell  look  at  her. 

"  Angus,"  said  Dick.  "  He  has  been  on  the  Press 
here  for  some  months." 

The  name  suggested  nothing  at  the  moment  to 
Nell,  but  Mary  let  the  card  fall.  It  was  a  shabby 
little  Christmas-card. 

"  I  think  we  should  go  up  and  see  if  we  can  do  any- 
thing," Dick's  sister  said. 

"  But  would  it  be  the  thing?"  Nell  asked. 

"Of  course  it  would,"  said  Mary,  a  little  surprised 
at  Nell. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE     STUPID     SEX. 

GIVE  a  man  his  chance,  and  he  has  sufficient  hard- 
ihood for  anything.  Within  a  week  of  the  accident 
Rob  was  in  Dick  Abinger's  most  luxurious  chair, 
coolly  taking  a  cup  and  saucer  from  Nell,  while  Mary 
arranged  a  cushion  for  his  poor  head.  He  even  made 
several  light-hearted  jests,  at  which  his  nurses  laughed 
heartily — because  he  was  an  invalid. 

Rob's  improvement  dated  from  the  moment  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  heard  the  soft  rustle  of  a  lady's 
skirts  in  the  next  room.  He  lay  quietly  listening, 
and  realized  by-and-bye  that  he  had  known  she  was 
Mary  Abinger  all  along. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  said  abruptly  to  Dick,  who 
was  swinging  his  legs  on  the  dressing-table.  Dick 
came  to  him  as  awkwardly  as  if  he  had  been  asked 
to  hold  a  baby,  and  saw  no  way  of  getting  out  of  it. 
Sick-rooms  chilled  him. 

"Are  you  feeling  better  now,  old  fellow?"  he  asked. 

"  Who  is  it?"  Rob  repeated,  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  That  is  my  sister,"  Dick  said. 

Rob's  head  fell  back.     He  could  not  take  it  in  all 

at  once.     Dick  thought  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
197 


198  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

tried  to  slip  gently  from  the  room,  discovering  for 
the  first  time  as  he  did  so  that  his  shoes  creaked. 

"Don't  go,"  said  Rob,  sitting  up  again.  "What 
is  your  sister's  name?" 

"Abinger,  of  course — Mary  Abinger,"  answered 
Dick,  under  the  conviction  that  the  invalid  was  still 
off  his  head.  He  made  for  the  door  again  but  Rob's 
arm  went  out  suddenly  and  seized  him. 

"You  are  a  liar,  you  know,"  Rob  said  feebly; 
"she's  not  your  sister." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  said  Dick,  humoring  him. 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  Rob  said  authoritatively. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Dick,  escaping  into  the 
other  room  to  tell  Mary  that  the  patient  was  raving 
again. 

"  I  heard  him,"  said  Mary. 

"Well,  what's  to  be  done?"  asked  her  brother. 
"  He's  madder  than  ever." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  think  he's  getting  on  nicely  now,"  Mary 
said,  moving  toward  the  bedroom. 

"Don't,"  exclaimed  Dick,  getting  in  front  of  her; 
"  why,  I  tell  you  his  mind  is  wandering.  He  says 
you're  not  my  sister." 

"  Of  course  he  can't  understand  so  long  as  he  thinks 
your  name  is  Simms." 

"  But  he  knows  my  name  is  Abinger.  Didn't  I  tell 
you  I  heard  him  groaning  it  over  to  himself?" 

"Oh,  Dick,"  said  Mary,  "I  wish  you  would  go 
away  and  write  a  stupid  article." 


THE  STUPID  SEX.  199 

Dick,  however,  stood  at  the  door,  ready  to  come 
to  his  sister's  assistance  if  Rob  got  violent. 

"He  says  you  are  his  sister,"  said  the  patient  to 
Mary. 

"  So  I  am,"  said  Mary  softly.  "  My  brother  writes 
under  the  name  of  Noble  Simms,  but  his  real  name 
is  Abinger.  Now  you  must  lie  still  and  think  about 
that;  you  are  not  to  talk  any  more." 

"  I  won't  talk  any  more,"  said  Rob  slowly.  "You 
are  not  going  away,  though?" 

"Just  for  a  little  while,"  Mary  answered.  "The 
doctor  will  be  here  presently." 

"Well,  you  have  quieted  him,"  Dick  admitted. 

They  were  leaving  the  room  when  they  heard  Rob 
calling. 

"There  he  goes  again,"  said  Dick,  groaning. 

"  What  is  it?"  Mary  asked, returning  to  the  bedroom. 

"Why  did  he  say  you  were  not  his  sister?"  Rob 
said  very  suspiciously. 

"Oh,  his  mind  was  wandering,"  Mary  answered 
cruelly. 

She  was  retiring  again,  but  stopped  undecidedly. 
Then  she  looked  from  the  door  to  see  if  her  brother 
was  within  hearing.  Dick  was  at  the  other  end  of 
the  sitting-room,  and  she  came  back  noiselessly  to 
Rob's  bedside. 

"Do  you  remember,"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
"how  the  accident  happened?  You  know  you  were 
struck  by  a  cab." 


200  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rob  at  once,  "  I  saw  him  kissing 
you.  I  don't  remember  anything  after  that." 

Mary,  looking  like  a  culprit,  glanced  hurriedly  at 
the  door.  Then  she  softly  pushed  the  invalid's  un- 
ruly hair  off  his  brow,  and  glided  from  the  room 
smiling. 

"Well?"  asked  Dick. 

"  He  was  telling  me  how  the  accident  happened," 
Mary  said. 

"  And  how  was  it?" 

"  Oh,  just  as  yon  said.  He  got  bewildered  at  a 
crossing,  and  was  knocked  over." 

"  But  he  wasn't  the  man  to  lose  his  reason  at  a 
crossing,"  said  Dick.  "  There  must  have  been  some- 
thing to  agitate  him." 

"  He  said  nothing  about  that,"  replied  Mary,  with- 
out blushing.  > 

"  Did  he  tell  you  how  he  knew  my  name  was  Ab- 
inger?"  Dick  asked,  as  they  went  downstairs. 

"  No,"  his  sister  said,  "  I  forgot  to  ask  him." 

"There  was  that  Christmas-card,  too,"  Dick  said 
suddenly.  "  Nell  says  Angus  must  be  in  love,  poor 
fellow." 

"  Nell  is  always  thinking  people  are  in  love,"  Mary 
answered  severely. 

"By-the-way,"  said  Dick,  "what  became  of  the 
card?  He  might  want  to  treasure  it,  you  know." 

"I — I  rather  think  I  put  it  somewhere,"  Mary 
said. 


THE  STUPID   SEX.  201 

"I  wonder,"  Dick  remarked  curiously,  "what  sort 
of  girl  Angus  would  take  to?" 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mary. 

They  were  back  in  Dick's  chambers  by  this  time, 
and  he  continued  with  some  complacency — for  all 
men  think  they  are  on  safe  ground  when  discussing 
an  affair  of  the  heart : 

"  We  could  build  the  young  lady  up  from  the  card, 
which,  presumably,  was  her  Christmas  offering  to 
him.  It  was  not  expensive,  so  she  is  a  careful  young 
person ;  and  the  somewhat  florid  design  represents  a 
blue  bird  sitting  on  a  pink  twig,  so  that  we  may  haz- 
ard the  assertion  that  her  artistic  taste  is  not  as  yet 
fully  developed.  She  is  a  fresh  country  maid,  or  the 
somewhat  rich  coloring  would  not  have  taken  her 
fancy,  and  she  is  short,  a  trifle  stout,  or  a  big  man 
like  Angus  would  not  have  fallen  in  love  with  her. 
Reserved  men  like  gushing  girls,  so  she  gushes  and 
says  'Oh  my!'  and  her  nicest  dress  (here  Dick  shiv- 
ered) is  of  a  shiny  satin  with  a  dash  of  rich  velvet 
here  and  there.  Do  you  follow  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary;  "it  is  wonderful.  I  suppose, 
now,  you  are  never  wrong  when  you  'build  up'  so 
much  on  so  little?" 

"  Sometimes  we  go  a  little  astray,"  admitted  Dick. 
"  I  remember  going  into  a  hotel  with  Rorrison  once, 
and  on  a  table  we  saw  a  sailor-hat  lying,  something 
like  the  one  Nell  wears — or  is  it  you?" 


202  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"  The  idea  of  your  not  knowing !"  said  his  sister 
indignantly. 

"  Well,  we  discussed  the  probable  owner.  I  con- 
cluded, after  narrowly  examining  the  hat,  that  she 
was  tall,  dark,'  and  handsome,  rather  than  pretty. 
Rorrison,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that  she  was 
a  pretty,  baby-faced  girl,  with  winning  ways." 

"  And  did  you  discover  if  either  of  you  was  right?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dick  slowly.  "In  the  middle  of  the 
discussion  a  little  boy  in  a  velvet  suit  toddled  into 
the  room,  and  said  to  us,  'Gim'me  my  hat.'" 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Rob  had  many  deli- 
cious experiences.  He  was  present  at  several  tea- 
parties  in  Abinger's  chambers,  the  guests  being 
strictly  limited  to  three ;  and  when  he  could  not  pre- 
tend to  be  ill  any  longer,  he  gave  a  tea-party  himself 
in  honor  of  his  two  nurses — his  one  and  a  half  nurses, 
Dick  called  them.  At  this  Mary  poured  out  the  tea, 
and  Rob's  eyes  showed  so  plainly  (though  not  to  Dick) 
that  he  had  never  seen  anything  like  it,  that  Nell 
became  thoughtful,  and  made  a  number  of  remarks 
on  the  subject  to  her  mother  as  soon  as  she  returned 
home. 

"  It  would  never  do,"  Nell  said,  looking  wise. 

"Whatever  would  the  colonel  say!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Meredith.  "  After  aU,  though, "  she  added— for 
she  had  been  to  see  Rob  twice,  and  liked  him  because 
of  something  he  had  said  to  her  about  his  mother — 
"he  is  just  the  same  as  Richard." 


THE  STUPID   SEX.  203 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Nell;  "Dick  is  an  Oxford  man, 
you  must  remember,  and  Mr.  Angus,  as  the  colonel 
would  say,  rose  from  obscurity." 

"Well,  if  he  did,"  persisted  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  he 
does  not  seem  to  be  going  back  to  it,  and  universities 
seem  to  me  to  be  places  for  making  young  men 
stupid." 

"It  would  never,  never  do,"  said  Nell,  with  dole- 
ful decision. 

"'What  does  Mary  say  about  him?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"  She  never  says  anything/'  said  Nell. 

"  Does  she  talk  much  to  him?" 

"No;  very  little." 

"That  is  a  good  sign,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Nell. 

"  Have  you  noticed  anything  else?" 

"  Nothing  except — well,  Mary  is  longer  in  dressing 
now  than  I  am,  and  she  used  not  to  be." 

"I  wonder,"  Mrs.  Meredith  remarked,  "if  Mary 
saw  him  at  Silchester  after  that  time  at  the  Castle?" 

"She  never  told  me  she  did,"  Nell  answered,  "but 
some  times  I  think— however,  there  is  no  good  in 
1  thinking." 

"  It  isn't  a  thing  you  often  do,  Nell.  By-the-way, 
he  saw  the  first  Sir  Clement  at  Dome  Castle,  did  he 
not?" 

"  Yes,".  Nell  said,  "  he  saw  the  impostor,  and  I  don't 
suppose  he  knows  there  is  another  Sir  Clement.  The 


204  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Abingers  don't  like  to  speak  of  that.  However,  they 
may  meet  on  Friday,  for  Dick  has  got  Mr.  Angus  a 
card  for  the  Symphonia,  and  Sir  Clement  is  to  be 
there." 

"What  does  Richard  say  about  it?"  asked  Mrs. 
Meredith,  going  back  apparently  upon  their  conver- 
sation. 

"  We  never  speak  about  it,  Dick  and  I,"  said  Nell. 

"What  do  you  speak  about,  then?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Nell. 

Mrs.  Meredith  sighed. 

"And  you  such  an  heiress,  Nell,"  she  said;  "you 
could  do  so  much  better.  He  will  never  have  any- 
thing but  what  he  makes  by  writing ;  and,  if  all  sto- 
ries be  true,  half  of  that  goes  to  the  colonel.  I'm 
sure  your  father  never  will  consent." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  will,"  NeU  said. 

"  If  he  had  really  tried  to  get  on  at  the  bar,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  pursued,  "  it  would  not  have  been  so  bad, 
but  he  is  evidently  to  be  a  newspaper  man  all  his 
life." 

"  I  wish  you  would  say  journalist,  mamma,"  Nell 
said,  pouting,  "  or  literary  man.  The  profession  of 
letters  is  a  noble  one." 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  Mrs.  Meredith  assented  with  an- 
other sigh,  "  and  I  dare  say  he  told  you  so,  but  I  can't 
think  it  is  very  respectable." 

Hob  did  not  altogether  enjoy  the  Symphonia, 
which  is  a  polite  club  attended  by  the  literary  fry  of 


THE  STUPID  SEX.  205 

both  sexes ;  the  ladies  who  write  because  they  cannot 
help  it,  the  poets  who  excuse  their  verses  because 
they  were  young  when  they  did  them,  the  clergymen 
who  publish  their  sermons  by  request  of  their  congre- 
gations, the  tourists  who  have  been  to  Spain  and 
cannot  keep  it  to  themselves.  The  club  meets  once 
a  fortnight,  for  the  purpose  of  not  listening  to  music 
and  recitations;  and  the  members,  of  whom  the  ladies 
outnumber  the  men,  sit  in  groups  round  little  lions 
who  roar  mildly.  The  Symphonia  is  very  fashion- 
able and  select,  and,  having  heard  the  little  lions 
a-roaring,  you  get  a  cup  of  coffee  and  go  home  again. 

Dick  explained  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  Sym- 
phonia because  he  rather  liked  to  put  on  the  lion's 
skin  himself  now  and  again,  and  he  took  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith and  the  two  girls  to  it  to  show  them  of  what 
literature  in  its  higher  branches  is  capable.  The 
elegant  dresses  of  the  literary  ladies,  and  the  suave 
manner  of  the  literary  gentlemen,  impressed  Nell's 
mother  favorably ;  and  the  Symphonia,  which  she  had 
taken  for  an  out-at-elbows  club,  raised  letters  in  her 
estimation. 

Rob,  however,  who  never  felt  quite  comfortable  in 
evening  dress,  had  a  bad  time  of  it ;  for  Dick  carried 
him  off  at  once,  and  got  him  into  a  group  round  the 
authoress  of  "  My  Baby  Boy,"  to  whom  Bob  was  in- 
troduced as  a  passionate  admirer  of  her  delightful 
works.  The  lion  made  room  for  him,  and  he  sat 
sadly  beside  her,  wishing  he  was  not  so  big. 


206  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Both  of  the  rooms  of  the  Symphonia  club  were 
crowded,  but  a  number  of  gentlemen  managed  to 
wander  from  group  to  group  over  the  skirts  of  ladies' 
gowns.  Rob  watched  them  wistfully  from  his  cage, 
and  observed  one  come  to  rest  at  the  back  of  Mary 
Abinger's  chair.  He  was  a  medium-sized  man,  and 
for  five  minutes  Rob  thought  he  was  Sir  Clement 
Dowton.  Then  he  realized  that  he  had  been  deceived 
by  a  remarkable  resemblance. 

The  stranger  said  a  great  deal  to  Mary,  and  she 
seemed  to  like  him.  After  a  long  time  the  authoress' 
voice  broke  in  on  Rob's  cogitations,  and  when  he  saw 
that  she  was  still  talking  without  looking  tired,  a  cer- 
tain awe  filled  him.  Then  Mary  rose  from  her  chair, 
taking  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  who  was  Sir  Clem- 
ent's double,  and  they  went  into  the  other  room 
where  the  coffee  was  served. 

Rob  was  tempted  to  sit  there  stupidly  miserable, 
for  the  easiest  thing  to  do  comes  to  us  first.  Then 
he  thought  it  was  better  to  be  a  man,  and,  drawing 
up  his  chest,  boldly  asked  the  lion  to  have  a  cup  of 
coffee.  In  another  moment  he  was  steering  her 
through  the  crowd,  her  hand  resting  on  his  arm,  and 
to  his  amazement  he  found  he  rather  liked  it. 

In  the  coffee-room  Rob  could  not  distinguish  the 
young  lady  who  moved  like  a  swan,  but  he  was 
elated  with  his  social  triumph,  and  cast  about  for  any 
journalist  of  his  acquaintance  who,  he  thought, 
might  like  to  meet  the  authoress  of  "  My  Baby  Boy." 


THE  STUPID  SEX.  207 

It  struck  Rob  that  he  had  no  right  to  keep  her  all  to 
himself.  Quite  close  to  him  his  eye  lighted  on  Marri- 
ott, the  author  of  "  Mary  Hooney :  a  Romance  of  the 
Irish  Question,"  but  Marriott  saw  what  he  was  after, 
and  dived  into  the  crowd.  A  very  young  gentleman, 
with  large,  empty  eyes,  begged  Rob's  pardon  for 
treading  on  his  toes,  and  Rob,  who  bad  not  felt  it, 
saw  that  this  was  his  man.  He  introduced  him  to 
the  authoress  as  another  admirer,  and  the  round-faced 
youth  seemed  such  a  likely  subject  for  her  next  work 
that  Rob  moved  off  comfortably. 

A  shock  awaited  him  when  he  met  Dick,  who  had 
been  passing  the  time  by  taking  male  guests  aside 
and  asking  them  in  an  impressive  voice  what  they 
thought  of  his  great  book,  "Lives  of  Eminent 
Washerwomen,"  which  they  had  no  doubt  read. 

"Who  is  the  man  so  like  Dowton?"  he  repeated, 
in  answer  to  Rob's  question.  "Why,  it  is  Dow- 
ton." 

Then  Dick  looked  vexed.  He  remembered  that 
Rob  had  been  at  Dome  Castle  on  the  previous  Christ- 
mas Eve. 

"Look 'here,  Angus,"  he  said  bluntly,  "this  is  a 
matter  I  hate  to  talk  about.  The  fact  is,  however, 
that  this  is  the  real  Sir  Clement.  The  fellow  you 
met  was  an  impostor,  who  came  from  no  one  knows 
where.  Unfortunately,  he  has  returned  to  the  same 
place." 

Dick  bit  his  lip  while  Rob  digested  this. 


208  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"But  if  you  know  the  real  Dowton,"  Rob  asked, 
"how  were  you  deceived?" 

"  Well,  it  was  my  father  who  was  deceived  rather 
than  myself,  but  we  did  not  know  the  real  baronet 
then.  The  other  fellow,  if  you  must  know,  traded 
on  his  likeness  to  Dowton,  who  is  in  the  country  now 
for  the  first  time  for  many  years.  Whoever  the  im- 
postor is  he  is  a  humorist  in  his  way,  for  when  he 
left  the  Castle  in  January  he  asked  my  father  to  call 
on  him  when  he  came  to  town.  The  fellow  must 
have  known  that  Dowton  was  coming  home  about 
that  time ;  at  all  events,  my  father,  who  was  in  Lon- 
don shortly  afterward,  looked  up  his  friend  the  bar- 
onet, as  he  thought,  at  his  club,  and  found  that  he 
had  never  set  eyes  on  him  before.  It  would  make  a 
delicious  article  if  it  had  not  happened  in  one's  own 
family." 

"The  real  Sir  Clement  seems  great  friends  with 
Miss  Abinger, "  Rob  could  not  help  saying. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "we  struck  up  an  intimacy  with 
him  over  the  affair,  and  stranger  things  have  hap- 
pened than  that  he  and  Mary " 

He  stopped. 

"My  father,  I  believe,  would  like  it,"  he  added 
carelessly,  but  Rob  had  turned  away.  Dick  went 
after  him. 

"I  have  told  you  this,"  he  said,  "because,  as  you 
knew  the  other  man,  it  had  to  be  done,  but  we  don't 
like  it  spoken  of." 


THE  STUPID  SEX.  209 

"  I  shall  not  speak  of  it,"  said  miserable  Rob. 

He  would  have  liked  to  be  tearing  through  London 
again,  but  as  that  was  not  possible  he  sought  a  soli- 
tary seat  by  the  door.  Before  he  reached  it  his  mood 
changed.  What  was  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  after  all, 
that  he  should  be  frightened  at  him?  He  was  mere- 
ly a  baronet.  An  impostor  who  could  never  have 
passed  for  a  journalist  had  succeeded  in  passing  for 
Dowton.  Journalism  was  the  noblest  of  all  profes- 
sions, and  Rob  was  there  representing  it.  The  seat 
of  honor  at  the  Symphonia  was  next  to  Mary  Ab- 
inger,  and  the  baronet  had  held  it  too  long  already. 
Instead  of  sulking,  Rob  approached  the  throne  like 
one  who  had  a  right  to  be  there.  Sir  Clement  had 
risen  for  a  moment  to  put  down  Mary's  cup,  and  when 
he  returned  Rob  was  in  his  chair,  with  no  immediate 
intention  of  getting  out  of  it.  The  baronet  frowned, 
which  made  Rob  say  quite  a  number  of  bright  things 
to  Miss  Abinger.  When  two  men  are  in  love  with 
the  same  young  lady,  one  of  them  must  be  worsted. 
Rob  saw  that  it  was  better  to  be  the  other  one. 

The  frightfully  bohemian  people  at  the  Symphonia 
remained  there  even  later  than  eleven  o'clock,  but 
the  rooms  thinned  before  then,  and  Dick's  party  were 
ready  to  go  by  half-past  ten.  Rob  was  now  very 
sharp.  It  did  not  escape  his  notice  that  the  gentle- 
men were  bringing  the  ladies'  cloaks,  and  he  calmly 
made  up  his  mind  to  help  Mary  Abinger  on  with 
hers.  To  his  annoyance,  Sir  Clement  was  too  quick 
14 


210  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

for  him.  The  baronet  was  in  the  midst  of  them  with 
the  three  ladies'  cloaks,  just  as  Rob  wondered  where 
he  would  have  to  go  to  find  them.  Nell's  cloak  Sir 
Clement  handed  to  Dick,  but  he  kept  Mary's  on  his 
arm  while  he  assisted  Mrs.  Meredith  into  hers.  It 
was  a  critical  moment.  All  would  be  over  in  five 
seconds. 

"Allow  me,  "said  Rob. 

With  apparent  coolness  he  took  Mary's  cloak  from 
the  baronet's  arm.  He  had  not  been  used  to  saying 
"Allow  me,"  and  his  face  was  white,  but  he  was  de- 
termined to  go  on  with  this  thing. 

"Take  my  arm,"  he  said  to  Mary,  as  they  joined 
the  crowd  that  swayed  toward  the  door.  After  he 
said  it  he  saw  that  he  had  spoken  with  an  air  of  pro- 
prietorship, but  he  was  not  sorry.  Mary  did  it. 

It  took  them  some  time  to  reach  their  cab,  and  on 
the  way  Mary  asked  Rob  a  question. 

"  I  gave  you  something  once,"  she  said,  "  but  I  sup- 
pose you  lost  it  long  ago." 

Rob  reddened,  for  he  had  been  sadly  puzzled  to 
know  what  had  become  of  his  Christmas-card. 

"  I  have  it  still,"  he  answered  at  last. 

"Oh,"  said  Mary  coldly;  and  at  once  Rob  felt  a 
chill  pass  through  him.  It  was  true,  after  all,  that 
Miss  Abinger  could  be  an  icicle  on  occasion. 

Rob,  having  told  a  lie,  deserved  no  mercy,  and  got 
none.  The  pity  of  it  is  that  Mary  might  have 
thawed  a  little  had  she  known  that  it  was  only  a  lie. 


THE  STUPID  SEX.  211 

She  thought  that  Rob  was  not  aware  of  his  loss. 
A  man  taking  fickleness  as  the  comparative  degree 
of  an  untruth  is  perhaps  only  what  may  be  looked 
for,  but  one  does  not  expect  it  from  a  woman.  Prob- 
ably the  lights  had  blinded  Mary. 

Rob  had  still  an  opportunity  of  righting  himself, 
but  he  did  not  take  it. 

"Then  you  did  mean  the  card  for  me,"  he  said,  in 
foolish  exultation ;  "  when  I  found  it  on  the  walk  I 
was  not  certain  that  you  had  not  merely  dropped  it 
by  accident." 

Alas,  for  the  fatuity  of  man !  Mary  looked  up  in 
icy  surprise. 

"What  card?"  she  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about." 

"Don't  you  remember?"  asked  Rob,  very  much 
requiring  to  be  sharpened  again. 

He  looked  so  woebegone  that  Mary  nearly  had 
pity  on  him.  She  knew,  however,  that,  if  it  was 
not  for  her  sex,  men  would  never  learn  anything. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  and  turned  to  talk  to  Sir  Clement. 

Rob  walked  home  from  the  Langham  that  night 
with  Dick,  and,  when  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  two 
Sir  Clements,  he  was  telling  himself  that  he  had 
climbed  his  hill  valiantly,  only  to  topple  over  when 
he  neared  the  top.  Before  he  went  to  bed  he  had  an 
article  to  finish  for  the  Wire,  and,  while  he  wrote, 
he  pondered  over  the  ways  of  woman — which,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  is  a  droll  thing  to  do. 


212  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Mr.  Meredith  had  noticed  Rob's  dejection  at  the 
hotel,  and  remarked  to  Nell's  mother  that  he  thought 
Mary  was  very  stiff  to  Angus.  Mrs.  Meredith  looked 
sadly  at  her  husband  in  reply. 

"You  think  so,"  she  said  mournfully  shaking  her 
head  at  him,  "  and  so  does  Richard  Abingsr.  Mr. 
Angus  is  as  blind  as  the  rest  of  you." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Meredith,  with 
much  curiosity. 

"Nor  do  they,"  replied  his  wife  contemptuously; 
"  there  are  no  men  so  stupid,  I  think,  as  the  clever 
ones." 

She  could  have  preached  a  sermon  that  night,  with 
the  stupid  sex  for  her  text. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  HOUSEBOAT   "TAWNY   OWL.'* 

"  MR.  ANGUS,  what  is  an  egotist?" 

"Don't  you  know,  Miss  Meredith?" 

"  Well,  I  know  in  a  general  sort  of  way,  but  not 
precisely." 

"An  egotist  is  a  person  who — but  why  do  you 
want  to  know?" 

"  Because  just  now  Mr.  Abinger  asked  me  what  I 
was  thinking  of,  and  when  I  said  'of  nothing,'  he 
called  me  an  egotist." 

"  Ah !  that  kind  of  egotist  is  one  whose  thoughts 
are  too  deep  for  utterance." 

It  was  twilight.  Rob  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
houseboat  Tawny  Owl,  looking  down  at  Nell,  who 
sat  in  the  stern,  her  mother  beside  her,  amid  a  blaze 
of  Chinese  lanterns.  Dick  lay  near  them,  prone,  as 
he  had  fallen  from  a  hammock  whose  one  flaw  was 
that  it  gave  way  when  any  one  got  into  it.  Mr. 
Meredith,  looking  out  from  one  of  the  saloon  win- 
dows across  the  black  water  that  was  now  streaked 
with  glistening  silver,  wondered  whether  he  was 
enjoying  himself,  and  Mary,  in  a  little  blue  nau- 
tical jacket  with  a  cap  to  match,  lay  back  in  a 
camp-chair  on  deck  with  a  silent  banjo  in  her 
213 


214  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

hands.  Rob  was  brazening  it  out  in  flannels,  and 
had  been  at  such  pains  to  select  colors  to  suit  him 
that  the  effect  was  atrocious.  He  had  spent  several 
afternoons  at  Molesey  during  the  three  weeks  the 
Tawny  Owl  had  lain  there,  but  this  time  he  was  to 
remain  overnight  at  the  Island  Hotel. 

The  Tawny  Owl  was  part  of  the  hoop  of  houseboats 
that  almost  girded  Tagg's  Island,  and  lights  sailed 
through  the  trees,  telling  of  launches  moving  to  their 
moorings  near  the  ferry.  Now  and  again  there  was 
the  echo  of  music  from  a  distant  houseboat.  For  a 
moment  the  water  was  loquacious  as  dingeys  or 
punts  shot  past.  Canadian  canoes,  the  ghosts  that 
haunt  the  Thames  by  night,  lifted  their  heads  out  of 
the  river,  gaped,  and  were  gone.  An  osier  wand 
dipped  into  the  water  under  a  weight  of  swallows, 
all  going  to  bed  together.  The  boy  on  the  next 
houseboat  kissed  his  hand  to  a  broom  on  board  the 
Tawny  Owl,  taking  it  for  Mrs.  Meredith's  servant, 
and  then  retired  to  his  kitchen  smiling.  From  the 
boat-house  across  the  river  came  the  monotonous  tap 
of  a  hammer.  A  reed-warbler  rushed  through  his 
song.  There  was  a  soft  splashing  along  the  bank. 

"There  was  once  a  literary  character,"  Dick  mur- 
mured, "  who  said  that  to  think  of  nothing  was  an 
impossibility,  but  he  lived  before  the  days  of  house- 
boats. I  came  here  a  week  ago  to  do  some  high 
thinking,  and  I  believe  I  have  only  managed  four 
thoughts — first,  that  the  cow  on  the  island  is  an  irate 


THE  HOUSEBOAT  "TAWNY  OWL."         215 

cow ;  second,  that  in  summer  the  sun  shines  brightly ; 
third,  that  the  trouble  of  lighting  a  cigar  is  almost  as 
great  as  the  pleasure  of  smoking  it ;  and  fourth,  that 
swans — the  fourth  thought  referred  to  swans/  but  it 
has  slipped  my  memory." 

He  yawned  like  a  man  glad  to  get  to  the  end  of  his 
sentence,  or  sorry  that  he  had  begun  it. 

"But  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "that  the 
reason  you  walk  round  and  round  the  island  by  your- 
self so  frequently  is  because  you  can  think  out  arti- 
cles on  it?" 

"Yes,"  Dick  answered;  "the  island  looks  like  a 
capital  place  to  think  on,  and  I  always  start  off  on 
my  round  meaning  to  think  hard.  After  that  all  is 
a  blank  till  I  am  back  at  the  Tawny  Owl,  when  I 
remember  that  I  have  forgotten  to  think." 

"  Will  ought  to  enjoy  this,"  remarked  Nell. 

"That  is  my  brother,  Mr.  Angus,"  Mary  said  to 
Rob;  " he  is  to  spend  part  of  his  holidays  here." 

"  I  remember  him, "  Rob  answered,  smiling.  Mary 
blushed,  however,  remembering  that  the  last  time 
Will  and  Greybrooke  met  Rob  there  had  been  a  lit- 
tle scene. 

"He  will  enjoy  the  fishing,"  said  Dick.  "I  have 
only  fished  myself  three  or  four  times,  and  I  am  con- 
fident I  hooked  a  minnow  yesterday." 

"I  saw  a  little  boy,"  Nell  said,  "fishing  from  the 
island  to-day,  and  his  mother  had  strapped  him  to  a 
tree  in  case  he  might  fall  in." 


216  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"When  I  saw  your  young  brother  at  Silchester," 
Rob  said  to  Mary,  "he  had  a  schoolmate  with 
him." 

"Ah,  yes,"  Dick  said;  "that  was  the  man  who 
wanted  to  horsewhip  you,  you  know." 

"  I  thought  he  and  Miss  Meredith  were  great 
friends,"  Rob  retorted.  He  sometimes  wondered 
how  much  Dick  cared  for  Nell. 

"It  was  only  the  young  gentleman's  good-nature," 
Abinger  explained,  while  Nell  drew  herself  up  in- 
dignantly ;  "  he  found  that  he  had  to  give  up  either 
Nell  or  a  cricket  match,  and  so  Nell  was  reluctantly 
dropped." 

"That  was  not  how  you  spoke,"  Nell  said  to  Dick 
in  a  low  voice,  "  when  I  told  you  all  about  him,  poor 
boy,  in  your  chambers." 

"You  promised  to  be  a  sister  to  him  I  think,"  re- 
marked Abinger.  "Ah,  Nell,  it  is  not  a  safe  plan 
that.  How  many  brothers  have  you  now?" 

Dick  held  up  his  hand  for  Mary's  banjo,  and,  set- 
tling himself  comfortably  in  a  corner,  twanged  and 
sang,  while  the  lanterns  caught  myriads  of  flies,  and 
the  bats  came  and  went : 

When  Coelebs  was  a  bolder  blade, 

And  ladies  fair  were  coy, 
His  search  was  for  a  wife,  he  said, 

The  time  I  was  a  boy. 
But  Coelebs  now  has  slothful  grown 

(I  learn  this  from  her  mother)  : 
Instead  of  making  her  his  own, 

He  asks  to  be  her  brother. 


THE  HOUSEBOAT  "TAWNY  OWL."         217 

Last  night  I  saw  her  smooth  his  brow  : 

He  bent  his  head  and  kissed  her ; 
They  understood  each  other  now— 

She's  going  to  be  his  sister. 
Some  say  he  really  does  propose 

And  means  to  gain  or  lose  all, 
And  that  the  new  arrangement  goes 

To  soften  her  refusal. 

He  talks  so  wild  of  broken  hearts, 

Of  futures  that  she'll  mar, 
He  says  on  Tuesday  he  departs 

For  Cork  or  Zanzibar. 
His  death  he  places  at  her  door, 

Yet  says  he  won't  resent  it ; 
Ah,  well,  he  talked  that  way  before, 

And  very  seldom  meant  it. 

Engagements  now  are  curious  things— 

"A  kind  of  understandin'  ;  " 
Although  they  do  not  run  to  rings, 

They're  good  to  keep  your  hand  in. 
No  rivals  now,  Tom,  Dick  and  Hal  : 

They  all  love  one  another, 
For  she's  a  sister  to  them  all, 

And  every  one's  her  brother. 

In  former  days  when  men  proposed, 

And  ladies  said  them  No, 
The  laws  that  courtesy  imposed 

Made  lovers  pack  and  go. 
But  now  that  they  may  brothers  be, 

So  changed  the  way  of  men  is, 
That,  having  kissed,  the  swain  and  she 

Resume  their  game  at  tennis. 

Ah,  Nelly  Meredith,  you  may 

Be  wiser  than  your  mother, 
But  she  knew  what  to  do  when  they 

Proposed  to  be  her  brother. 


218  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Of  these  relations  best  have  none— 
They'll  only  you  encumber ; 

Of  wives  a  man  may  have  but  one, 
Of  sisters  any  number. 


Dick  disappeared  into  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith to  show  her  how  they  make  a  salad  at  the  Wig- 
wam, and  Nell  and  her  father  went  a-fishing  from  the 
bedroom  window.  The  night  was  so  silent  now  that 
Rob  and  Mary  seemed  to  have  it  to  themselves.  A 
canoe  in  a  blaze  of  colored  light  drifted  past  without 
a  sound.  The  grass  on  the  bank  parted,  and  water- 
rats  peeped  out.  All  at  once  Mary  had  nothing  to 
say,  and  Rob  shook  on  his  stool.  The  moon  was  out 
looking  at  them. 

"  Oh !"  Mary  cried,  as  something  dipped  suddenly 
in  the  water  near  them. 

"It  was  only  a  dabchick,"  Rob  guessed,  looking 
over  the  rail. 

"What  is  a  dabchick?"  asked  Mary. 

Rob  did  not  tell  her.  She  had  not  the  least  desire 
to  know. 

In  the  river,  on  the  opposite  side  from  where  the 
Tawny  Owl  lay,  a  stream  drowns  itself.  They  had 
not  known  of  its  existence  before,  but  it  was  roaring 
like  a  lasher  to  them  now.  Mary  shuddered  slightly, 
turning  her  face  to  the  island,  and  Rob  took  a  great 
breath  as  he  looked  at  her.  His  hand  held  her  brown 
sunshade  that  was  ribbed  with  velvet,  the  sunshade 
with  the  preposterous  handle  that  Mary  held  upside 


THE   HOUSEBOAT    "TAWNY  OWL."         219 

down.  Other  ladies  carried  their  sunshades  so,  and 
Rob  resented  it.  Her  back  was  toward  him,  and  he 
sat  still,  gazing  at  the  loose  blue  jacket  that  only 
reached  her  waist.  It  was  such  a  slender  waist  that 
Rob  trembled  for  it. 

The  trees  that  hung  over  the  houseboat  were  black, 
but  the  moon  made  a  fairyland  of  the  sward  beyond. 
Mary  could  only  see  the  island  between  heavy 
branches,  but  she  looked  straight  before  her  until 
tears  dimmed  her  eyes.  Who  would  dare  to  seek  the 
thoughts  of  a  girl  at  such  a  moment?  Rob  moved 
nearer  her.  Her  blue  cap  was  tilted  back,  her  chin 
rested  on  the  rail.  All  that  was  good  in  him  was 
astir  when  she  turned  and  read  his  face. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  down  now,"  Mary  said,  becoming 
less  pale  as  she  spoke.  Rob's  eyes  f oh1  owed  her  as 
she  moved  toward  the  ladder. 

"Not  yet,"  he  called  after  her,  and  could  say  no 
more.  It  was  always  so  when  they  were  alone,  and 
he  made  himself  suffer  for  it  afterward. 

Mary  stood  irresolutely  at  the  top  of  the  ladder. 
She  would  not  turn  back,  but  she  did  not  descend. 
Mr.  Meredith  was  fishing  lazily  from  the  lower  deck, 
and  there  was  a  murmur  of  voices  in  the  saloon.  On 
the  road  running  parallel  to  the  river  traps  and  men 
were  shadows  creeping  along  to  Hampton.  Lights 
were  going  out  there.  Mary  looked  up  the  stretch 
of  water  and  sighed. 

"Was  there  ever  so  beautiful  a  night?"  she  said. 


220  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Yes,"  said  Rob,  at  her  elbow,  "once  at  Dome 
Castle,  the  night  I  saw  you  first." 

"I  don't  remember,"  said  Mary  hastily,  but  with- 
out going  down  the  ladder. 

"I  might  never  have  met  you,"  Rob  continued 
grimly,  "if  some  man  in  Silchester  had  not  mur- 
dered his  wife." 

Mary  started  and  looked  up  at  him.  Until  she 
ceased  to  look  he  could  not  go  on. 

"The  murder,"  he  explained,  "was  of  more  im- 
portance than  Colonel  Abinger's  dinner,  and  so  I  was 
sent  to  the  castle.  It  is  rather  curious  to  trace  these 
things  back  a  step.  The  woman  enraged  her  hus- 
band into  striking  her,  because  she  had  not  prepared 
his  supper.  Instead  of  doing  that  she  had  been  gos- 
siping with  a  neighbor,  who  would  not  have  had 
time  for  gossip  had  she  not  been  laid  up  with  a 
sprained  ankle.  It  came  out  in  the  evidence  that 
this  woman  had  hurt  herself  by  slipping  on  a  mar- 
ble, so  that  I  might  never  have  seen  you  had  not  two 
boys,  whom  neither  of  us  ever  heard  of,  challenged 
each  other  to  a  game  at  marbles." 

"It  was  stranger  that  we  should  meet  again  in 
London,"  Mary  said. 

"No,"  Rob  answered,  "the  way  we  met  was 
strange,  but  I  was  expecting  you." 

Mary  pondered  how  she  should  take  this,  and  then 
pretended  not  to  hear  it. 


THE  HOUSEBOAT    "TAWNY  OWL."          221 

"Was  it  not  rather 'The  Scorn  of  Scorns' that 
made  us  know  each  other?"  she  asked. 

"I  knew  you  after  I  read  it  a  second  time,"  he 
said;  " I  have  got  that  copy  of  it  still." 

"You  said  you  had  the  card." 

"I  have  never  been  able  to  understand,"  Eob  an- 
swered, "how  I  lost  that  card.  But,"  he  added 
sharply,  "  how  do  you  know  that  I  lost  it?" 

Mary  glanced  up  again. 

"I  hate  being  asked  questions,  Mr.  Angus,"  she 
said  sweetly. 

"Do  you  remember,"  Rob  went  on,  "saying  in 
that  book  that  men  were  not  to  be  trusted  until  they 
reached  their  second  childhood?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Mary  replied  laughing,  "that 
they  are  to  be  trusted  even  then." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Rob,  rather  anxiously, 
"  that  a  woman  might  as  well  marry  a  man  in  his 
first  childhood  as  in  his  second.  Surely  the  golden 
mean "  Rob  paused.  He  was  just  twenty-seven. 

"We  should  strike  the  golden  mean,  you  think?" 
asked  Mary  demurely.  "  But  you  see  it  is  of  such 
short  duration." 

After  that  there  was  such  a  long  pause  that  Mary 
could  easily  have  gone  down  the  ladder  had  she 
wanted  to  do  so. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  and  Dick  are  such  friends," 
she  said  at  last. 


222  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  Why?"  asked  Rob  quickly. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Mary. 

"  He  has  been  the  best  friend  I  have  ever  made," 
Rob  continued  warmly,  "though  he  says  our  only 
point  in  common  is  a  hatred  of  rice  pudding." 

"He  told  me,"  said  Mary,  "that  you  write  on  poli- 
tics in  the  Wire" 

"  I  do  a  little  now,  but  I  have  never  met  any  one 
yet  who  admitted  that  he  had  read  my  articles.  Even 
your  brother  won't  go  so  far  as  that." 

"  I  have  read  several  of  them,"  said  Mary. 

"  Have  you?"  Rob  exclaimed,  like  a  big  boy. 

"Yes,"  Mary  answered  severely;  "but  I  don't 
agree  with  them.  I  am  a  Conservative,  you  know." 

She  pursed  up  her  mouth  complacently  as  she 
spoke,  and  Rob  fell  back  a  step  to  prevent  his  going 
a  step  closer.  He  could  hear  Mr.  Meredith's  line 
tearing  the  water.  The  boy  on  the  next  houseboat 
was  baling  the  dingey,  and  whistling  a  doleful  ditty 
between  each  canful. 

"There  will  never  be  such  a  night  again,"  Rob 
said  in  a  melancholy  voice.  Then  he  waited  for 
Mary  to  ask  why,  when  he  would  have  told  her,  but 
she  did  not  ask. 

"At  least  not  to  me,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"for  I  am  not  likely  to  be  here  again.  But  there 
may  be  many  such  nights  to  you." 

Mary  was  unbuttoning  her  gloves  and  then  button- 
ing them  again.  There  is  something  uncanny  about 


THE  HOUSEBOAT    "TAWNY  OWL."         223 

a  woman  who  has  a  chance  to  speak  and  does  not 
take  it. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear,"  said  Eob,  "that  my  being 
away  will  make  no  difference  to  you." 

A  light  was  running  along  the  road  to  Hampton 
Court,  and  Mary  watched  it. 

"  Are  you  glad?"  asked  Rob  desperately. 

"You  said  I  was,"  answered  Mary,  without  turn- 
ing her  head.  Dick  was  thumming  the  banjo  below. 
Her  hand  touched  a  camp-chair,  and  Rob  put  his 
over  it.  He  would  have  liked  to  stand  like  that  and 
talk  about  things  in  general  now. 

"Mary,"  said  Rob. 

The  boy  ceased  to  whistle.  All  nature  in  that 
quarter  was  paralyzed,  except  the  tumble  of  water 
across  the  river.  Mary  withdrew  her  hand,  but  said 
nothing.  Rob  held  his  breath.  He  had  not  even 
the  excuse  of  having  spoken  impulsively,  for  he  had 
been  meditating  saying  it  for  weeks. 

By-and-bye  the  world  began  to  move  again.     The 
boy  whistled.      A  swallow  tried  another  twig.     A 
moor-hen  splashed  in  the  river.     They  had  thought 
it  over,  and  meant  to  let  it  pass. 
"  Are  you  angry  with  me?"  Rob  asked. 

Mary  nodded  her  head,  but  did  not  speak.  Sud- 
denly Rob  started. 

"  You  are  crying, "  he  said. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  Mary,  looking  up  now. 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  face  that  made 


224  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Rob  shake.  He  was  so  near  her  that  his  hands 
touched  her  jacket.  At  that  moment  there  was  a 
sound  of  feet  on  the  plank  that  communicated  be- 
tween the  Tawny  Owl  and  the  island,  and  Dick 
called  out : 

"  You  people  up  there,  are  you  coming  once  round 
the  island  before  you  have  something  to  eat?" 

Rob  muttered  a  reply  that  Dick  fortunately  did  not 
catch,  but  Mary  answered,  "Yes,"  and  they  de- 
scended the  ladder. 

"You  had  better  put  a  shawl  over  your  shoulders," 
said  Rob  in  rather  a  lordly  tone. 

"No,"  Mary  answered,  thrusting  away  the  shawl 
he  produced  from  the  saloon ;  "  a  wrap  on  a  night  like 
this  would  be  absurd." 

Something  caught  in  her  throat  at  that  moment, 
and  she  coughed.  Rob  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"You  had  better,"  he  said,  putting  the  shawl  over 
her  shoulders. 

"No,"  said  Mary,  flinging  it  off. 

"Yes,"  said  Rob,  putting  it  on  again. 

Mary  stamped  her  foot. 

"  How  dare  you,  Mr.  Angus?"  she  exclaimed. 

Rob's  chest  heaved. 

"You  must  do  as  you  are  told,"  he  said. 

Mary  looked  at  him  while  he  looked  at  her,  but  she 
did  not  take  off  the  shawl  again,  and  that  was  the 
great  moment  of  Rob's  life. 

The  others  had  gone  on  before.     Although  it  was 


THE  HOUSEBOAT    "TAWNY  OWL."         225 

a  white  night  the  plank  was  dark  in  shadow,  and  as 
she  stepped  off  it  she  slipped  back.  Rob's  arm  went 
round  her  for  a  moment.  They  walked  round  the 
island  together  behind  the  others,  but  neither  uttered 
a  word.  Rob  was  afraid  even  to  look  at  her,  so  he 
did  not  see  that  Mary  looked  once  or  twice  at  him. 

Long  after  he  was  supposed  to  be  in  the  hotel  Rob 
was  still  walking  round  the  island,  with  no  one  to 
see  him  but  the  cow.  All  the  Chinese  lanterns  were 
out  now,  but  red  window-blinds  shone  warm  in 
several  houseboats,  and  a  terrier  barked  at  his  foot- 
steps. The  grass  was  silver-tipped,  as  in  an  en- 
chanted island,  and  the  impatient  fairies  might  only 
have  been  waiting  till  he  was  gone.  He  was  wonder- 
ing if  she  was  offended.  While  he  paced  the  island 
she  might  be  vowing  never  to  look  at  him  again,  but 
perhaps  she  was  only  thinking  that  he  was  very  much 
improved. 

At  last  Rob  wandered  to  the  hotel,  and  reaching 
his  bedroom  sat  down  on  a  chair  to  think  it  out  again 
by  candle-light.  He  rose  and  opened  the  window. 
There  was  a  notice  over  the  mantelpiece  announcing 
that  smoking  was  not  allowed  in  the  bedrooms,  and 
having  read  it  thoughtfully  he  filled  his  pipe.  A  piece 
of  crumpled  paper  lay  beneath  the  dressing-table,  and 
he  lifted  it  up  to  make  a  spill  of  it.  It  was  part  of 
an  envelope,  and  it  floated  out  of  Rob's  hand  as  he 
read  the  address  in  Mary  Abinger's  handwriting, 
"Sir  Clement  Dowton,  Island  Hotel." 
15 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MARY    OF   THE   STONY   HEART. 

A  PUNT  and  a  rowing-boat  were  racing  lazily 
toward  Sunbury  on  a  day  so  bright  that  you  might 
have  passed  women  with  their  hair  in  long  curls  and 
forgiven  them. 

"I  say,  Dick,"  said  one  of  the  scullers,  "are  they 
engaged?" 

Will  was  the  speaker,  and  in  asking  the  question 
he  caught  a  crab.  Mary,  with  her  yellow  sleeves 
turned  up  at  the  wrist,  a  great  straw  hat  on  her  head, 
ran  gayly  after  her  pole,  and  the  punt  jerked  past. 
If  there  are  any  plain  girls,  let  them  take  to  punting 
and  be  beautiful. 

Dick,  who  was  paddling  rather  than  pulling  stroke, 
turned  round  on  his  young  brother  sharply. 

"Whom  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  speaking  low, 
so  that  the  other  occupants  of  the  boat  should  not 
hear  him,  "Mary  and  Dowton?" 

"No,"  said  Will,  "Mary  and  Angus.  I  wonder 
what  they  see  in  her." 

They  were  bound  for  a  picnicking  resort  up  the 
river;  Mrs.  Meredith,  Mary,  and  Sir  Clement  in  the 
226 


MARY   OF   THE   STONY   HEART.  227 

punt,  and  the  others  in  the  boat.  If  Rob  was  en- 
gaged he  took  it  gloomily.  He  sat  in  the  stern  with 
Mr.  Meredith,  while  Nell  hid  herself  away  beneath  a 
many-colored  umbrella  in  the  prow;  and  when  he 
steered  the  boat  into  a  gondola,  he  only  said  vacantly 
to  its  occupants:  "It  is  nothing  at  all,"  as  if  they 
had  run  into  him.  Nell's  father  said  something 
about  not  liking  the  appearance  of  the  sky,  and  Rob 
looked  at  him  earnestly  for  such  a  length  of  time  be- 
fore replying  that  Mr.  Meredith  was  taken  aback. 
At  times  the  punt  came  alongside,  and  Mary  ad- 
dressed every  one  in  the  boat  except  Rob.  The  only 
person  in  the  punt  who  Rob  never  looked  at  was 
Mary.  Dick  watched  them  uneasily,  and  noticed 
that  once,  when  Mary  nearly  followed  her  pole  into 
the  water,  Rob,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  was  the  first  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. Then  Dick  pulled  so  savagely  that  he  turned 
the  boat  round. 

That  morning  at  breakfast  in  his  chambers  Rob 
had  no  thought  of  spending  the  day  on  the  river. 
He  had  to  be  at  the  Wire  office  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  during  the  day  he  meant  to  finish  one 
of  the  many  articles  which  he  still  wrote  for  other 
journals  that  would  seldom  take  them.  The  knowl- 
edge that  Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  been  to  Molesey 
disquieted  him,  chiefly  because  Mary  Abinger  had 
said  nothing  about  it.  Having  given  himself  fifty 
reasons  for  her  reticence,  he  pushed  them  from  him, 


228  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

and  vowed  wearily  that  he  would  go  to  the  houseboat 
no  more.  Then  Dick  walked  in  to  suggest  that  they 
might  run  down  for  an  hour  or  two  to  Molesey,  and 
Rob  agreed  at  once.  He  shaped  out  in  the  train  a 
subtle  question  about  Sir  Clement  that  he  intended 
asking  Mary,  but  on  reaching  the  plank  he  saw  her 
feeding  the  swans,  with  the  baronet  by  her  side. 
Rob  felt  like  a  conjurer  whose  trick  has  not  worked 
properly.  Giving  himself  j  ust  a  half  a  minute  to  reflect 
that  it  was  all  over,  he  affected  the  coldly  courteous, 
and  smiled  in  a  way  that  was  meant  to  be  heartrend- 
ing. Mary  did  not  mind  that,  but  it  annoyed  her  to 
see  the  band  of  his  necktie  slipping  over  his  collar. 

It  was  the  day  of  the  Sunbury  Regatta,  but  the 
party  from  the  Tawny  Owl  twisted  past  the  racers, 
leaving  Dick,  who  wanted  a  newspaper,  behind. 
When  he  rejoined  them  beyond  the  village,  the  boat 
was  towing  the  punt. 

"Why,"  said  Dick,  in  some  astonishment  to  Rob, 
who  was  rowing  now,  "  I  did  not  know  you  could 
scull  like  that." 

"I  have  been  practising  a  little,"  answered  Rob. 

"When  became  down  here  the  first  time,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  explained  to  Sir  Clement,  "  he  did  not  know 
how  to  hold  an  oar.  I  am  afraid  he  is  one  of  those 
men  who  like  to  be  best  at  everything." 

"  He  certainty  knows  how  to  scull  now,"  admitted 
the  baronet,  beginning  to  think  that  Rob  was  per- 
haps a  dangerous  man.  Sir  Clement  was  a  manly 


MARY  OF   THE  STONY  HEART.  229 

gentleman,  but  his  politics  were  that  people  should 
not  climb  out  of  the  station  they  were  born  into. 

"  No,"  Dick  said,  in  answer  to  a  question  from  Mr. 
Meredith,  "I  could  only  get  a  local  paper.  The 
woman  seemed  surprised  at  my  thinking  she  would 
take  in  the  Scalping  Knife  or  the  Wire,  and  said, 
"  We've  got  a  paper  of  our  own. '  " 

"Read  out  the  news  to  us,  Richard,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Meredith.  Dick  hesitated. 

"Here,  Will," he  said  to  his  brother,  "you  got  that 
squeaky  voice  of  yours  specially  to  proclaim  the  news 
from  a  boat  to  a  punt  ten  yards  distant.  Angus  is 
longing  to  pull  us  up  the  river  unaided." 

Will  turned  the  paper  round  and  round. 

" Here  is  a  funny  thing,"  he  bawled  out,  "about  a 
stick.  'A  curious  story,  says  a  London  correspond- 
ent, is  going  the  round  of  the  clubs  to-day  about  the 
walking-stick  of  a  well-known  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, whose  name  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  mention. 
The  story  has  not,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  yet  appeared 
in  print,  and  it  conveys  a  lesson  to  all  persons  who 
carry  walking-sticks  with  knobs  for  handles,  which 
generate  a  peculiar  disease  in  the  palm  of  the  hand 
The  member  of  Parliament  referred  to,  with  whom  I 

am  on  intimate  terms ' "     Rob  looked  at  Dick, 

and  they  both  groaned. 

"My  stick  again,"  murmured  Rob. 

"Read  something  else,"  cried  Dick,  shivering. 

"Eh,  what  is  wrong?"  asked  Mr.  Meredith. 


230  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"You  must  know,"  said  Dick,  "that  the  first  time 
I  met  Angus  he  told  me  imprudently  some  foolish 
story  about  a  stick  that  bred  a  disease  in  the  owner's 
hand,  owing  to  his  pressing  so  heavily  on  the  ball  it 
had  by  way  of  a  handle.  I  touched  the  story  up  a 
little,  and  made  half-a-guinea  out  of  it.  Since  then 
that  note  has  been  turning  up  in  a  new  dress  in  the 
most  unlikely  places.  First  the  London  correspond- 
ents swooped  down  on  it,  and  telegraphed  it  all  over 
the  country  as  something  that  had  happened  to  well- 
known  Cabinet  Ministers.  It  appeared  in  the  Paris 
Figaro  as  a  true  story  about  Sir  Gladstone,  and  soon 
afterward  it  was  across  the  Channel  as  a  reminiscence 
of  Thiers.  Having  done  another  tour  of  the  prov- 
inces it  was  taken  to  America  by  a  lecturer,  who  ex- 
hibited the  stick.  Next  it  travelled  the  Continent, 
until  it  was  sent  home  again  by  Paterfamilias  Abroad, 
writing  to  the  Times,  who  said  that  the  man  who 
owned  the  stick  was  a  well-known  Alpine  guide.  Since 
then  we  have  heard  of  it  fitfully  as  doing  well  in  Mel- 
bourne and  Arkansas.  It  figured  in  the  last  volume, 
or  rather  two  volumes,  of  autobiography  published ; 
and  now,  you  see,  it  is  going  the  round  of  the  clubs 
again,  preparatory  to  starting  on  another  tour.  I 
wish  you  had  kept  your  stick  to  yourself,  Angus." 

"That  story  will  never  die,"  Rob  said,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction.  "  It  will  go  round  and  round  the  world 
till  the  crack  of  doom.  Our  children's  children  will 
tell  it  to  each  other." 


MARY  OF   THE  STONY  HEART.  231 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "and  say  it  happened  to  a  friend 
of  theirs." 

A  field  falls  into  the  river  above  Sunbury,  in  which 
there  is  a  clump  of  trees  of  which  many  boating  par- 
ties know.  Under  the  shadow  of  these  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith cast  a  table-cloth  and  pegged  it  down  with  salt- 
cellars. 

"As  we  are  rather  in  a  hurry,"  she  said  to  the 
gentlemen,  "  I  should  prefer  you  not  to  help  us." 

Rob  wandered  to  the  river-side  with  Will,  who 
would  have  liked  to  know  whether  he  could  jump  a 
gate  without  putting  his  hands  on  it ;  and  the  other 
men  leaned  against  the  trees,  wondering  a  little,  per- 
haps, why  ladies  enjoy  in  the  summer  time  mak- 
ing chairs  and  tables  of  the  ground. 

Rob  was  recovering  from  his  scare,  and  made 
friends  with  Mary's  young  brother.  By  particular 
request  he  not  only  leaped  the  gate  but  lifted  it  off  its 
hinges,  and  this  feat  of  strength  so  impressed  Will 
that  he  would  have  brought  the  whole  party  down  to 
see  it  done.  Will  was  as  fond  of  Mary  as  a  proper 
respect  for  himself  would  allow,  but  he  thought  she 
would  be  a  lucky  girl  if  she  got  a  fellow  who  could 
play  with  a  heavy  gate  like  that. 

Being  a  sharp  boy,  Will  noticed  a  cloud  settle  on 
Rob's  face,  and  looking  toward  the  clump  of  trees,  he 
observed  that  Mary  and  the  baronet  were  no  longer 
there.  In  the  next  field  two  figures  were  disappear- 
ing, the  taller,  a  man  in  a  tennis  jacket,  carrying  a 


232  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE, 

pail.  Sir  Clement  had  been  sent  for  water,  and  Mary 
had  gone  with  him  to  show  him  the  spring.  Rob 
stared  after  them ;  and  if  Will  could  have  got  hold  of 
Mary  he  would  have  shaken  her  for  spoiling  every- 
thing. 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  meditating  sending  some  one 
to  the  spring  to  show  them  the  way  back,  when  Sir 
Clement  and  Mary  again  came  into  sight.  They  did 
not  seem  to  be  saying  much,  yet  were  so  engrossed 
that  they  zigzagged  toward  the  rest  of  the  party  like 
persons  seeking  their  destination  in  a  mist.  Just  as 
they  reached  the  trees  Mary  looked  up  so  softly  at 
.her  companion  that  Rob  turned  away  in  an  agony. 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  the  spring,"  were  Mary's  first 
words,  as  if  she  expected  to  be  taken  to  task  for  their 
lengthened  absence. 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  Dick. 

The  baronet  crossed  with  the  pail  to  Mrs.  Meredith, 
and  stopped  half-way  like  one  waking  from  a  dream. 
Mrs.  Meredith  held  out  her  hand  for  the  pail,  and  the 
baronet  stammered  with  vexation.  Simultaneously 
the  whole  party  saw  what  was  wrong,  but  Will  only 
was  so  merciless  as  to  put  the  discovery  into  words. 

"Why,"  cried  the  boy,  pausing  to  whistle  in  the 
middle  of  his  sentence,  "you  have  forgotten  the 
water !" 

It  was  true.  The  pail  was  empty.  Sir  Clement 
turned  it  upside  down,  and  made  a  seat  of  it. 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Meredith,  trying 


MARY   OF  THE  STOXY  HEART.  233 

to  speak  lightly.  "  I  assure  you  I  thought  I  had  filled 
the  pail  at  the  spring.  It  is  entirely  my  fault,  for  I 
told  Miss  Abinger  I  had  done  so." 

Mary's  face  was  turned  from  the  others,  so  that 
they  could  not  see  how  she  took  the  incident.  It 
gave  them  so  much  to  think  of  that  Will  was  the 
only  one  of  the  whole  part}7"  who  saw  its  ridiculous 
aspect. 

"Put  it  down  to  sunstroke,  Miss  Meredith,"  the 
baronet  said  to  Nell ;  "  I  shall  never  allow  myself  to 
be  placed  in  a  position  of  trust  again." 

"Does  that  mean,"  asked  Dick,  "that  you  object 
to  being  sent  back  again  to  the  spring?" 

"  Ah,  I  forgot,"  said  Sir  Clement.  "  You  may  de- 
pend on  me  this  time." 

He  seized  the  pail  once  more,  glad  to  get  away  by 
himself  to  some  place  where  he  could  denounce  his 
stupidity  unheard,  but  Mrs.  Meredith  would  not  let 
him  go.  As  for  Mary,  she  was  looking  so  haughty 
now  that  no  one  would  have  dared  to  mention  the 
pail  again. 

During  the  meal  Dick  felt  compelled  to  talk  so 
much  that  he  was  unusually  dull  company  for  the 
remainder  of  the  week.  The  others  were  only  genial 
now  and  again.  Sir  Clement  sought  in  vain  to 
gather  from  Mary's  eyes  that  she  had  forgiven  him 
for  making  the  rest  of  the  party  couple  him  and  her 
in  their  thoughts.  Mrs.  Meredith  would  have  liked 
to  take  her  daughter  aside  and  discuss  the  situation, 


234  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

and  Nell  was  looking  covertly  at  Rob,  who,  she 
thought,  bore  it  bravely.  Rob  had  lately  learned 
carving  from  a  handbook,  and  was  dissecting  a  fowl, 
murmuring  to  himself,  "  Cut  from  a  to  b  along  the 
line  /  </,  taking  care  to  sever  the  wing  at  the  point  k. " 
Like  all  the  others,  he  thought  that  Mary  had 
promised  to  be  the  baronet's  wife,  and  Nell's  heart 
palpitated  for  him  when  she  saw  how  gently  he 
passed  Sir  Clement  the  mustard.  Such  a  load  lay  on 
Rob  that  he  felt  suffocated .  Nell  noticed  indignantly 
that  Mar}-  was  not  even  "nice"  to  him.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  or  at  least  for  several  weeks, 
Miss  Meredith  was  wroth  with  Miss  Abinger.  Mary 
might  have  been  on  the  rack,  but  she  went  on  proudly 
eating  bread  and  chicken.  Relieved  of  his  fears, 
Dick  raged  internally  at  Mary  for  treating  Angus 
cruelly,  and  Nell,  who  had  always  dreaded  lest  things 
should  not  go  as  they  had  gone,  sat  sorrowfully  be- 
cause she  had  not  been  disappointed.  They  all  knew 
how  much  they  cared  for  Rob  now,  all  except  Mary 
of  the  stony  heart. 

Sir  Clement  began  to  tell  some  traveller's  tales, 
omitting  many  things  that  were .  creditable  to  his 
bravery,  and  Rob  found  himself  listening  with  a 
show  of  interest,  wondering  a  little  at  his  own  audac- 
ity in  competing  with  such  a  candidate.  By-and-bye 
some  members  of  the  little  party  drifted  away  from 
the  others,  and  an  accident  left  Mary  and  Rob  to- 
gether. Mary  was  aimlessly  plucking  the  berries 


MARY  OF   THE  STONY  HEART.  235 

from  a  twig  in  her  hand,  and  all  the  sign  she  gave 
that  she  knew  of  Rob's  presence  was  in  not  raising 
her  head.  If  love  is  ever  unselfish  his  was  at  that 
moment.  He  took  a  step  forward,  and  then  Mary, 
starting  back,  looked  round  hurriedly  in  the  direction 
of  Sir  Clement.  What  Rob  thought  was  her  mean- 
ing flashed  through  him,  and  he  stood  still  in  pain. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  think  so  meanly  of  me,"  he  said, 
and  passed  on.  He  did  not  see  Mary's  arms  rise 
involuntarily,  as  if  they  would  call  him  back.  But 
even  then  she  did  not  realize  what  Rob's  thoughts 
were.  A  few  yards  away  Rob,  moving  blindly, 
struck  against  Dick. 

"Ah,  I  see  Mary  there,"  her  brother  said;  "I  want 
to  speak  to  her.  Why,  how  white  you  are,  man !" 

"Abinger,"  Rob  answered,  hoarsely,  "tell  me.  I 
must  know.  Is  she  engaged  to  Dowton?" 

Dick  hesitated.  He  felt  sore  for  Rob.  "  Yes,  she 
is, "  he  replied.  "  You  remember  I  spoke  of  this  to 
you  before."  Then  Dick  moved  on  to  have  it  out 
with  Mary.  She  was  standing  with  the  twig  in  her 
hand,  just  as  Rob  had  left  her. 

"Mary,"  said  her  brother  bluntly,  "this  is  too 
bad.  I  would  have  expected  it  from  any  one  sooner 
than  from  you." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  asked  Mary 
frigidly. 

•  "  I  am  talking  about  Angus,  my  friend.  Yes,  you 
may  smile,  but  it  is  not  play  to  him." 


236  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"What  have  I  done  to  your  friend?"  said  Mary, 
looking  Dick  in  the  face. 

"  You  have  crushed  the  life  for  the  time  being  out 
of  as  fine  a  fellow  as  I  ever  knew.  You  might  at 
least  have  amused  yourself  with  some  one  a  little 
more  experienced  in  the  ways  of  women." 

"  How  dare  you,  Dick?"  exclaimed  Mary,  stamp- 
ing her  foot.  All  at  once  Dick  saw  that  though  she 
spoke  bravely  her  lips  were  trembling.  A  sudden 
fear  seized  him. 

"  I  presume  that  you  are  engaged  to  Dowton?"  he 
said  quickly. 

"It  is  presumption  certainly,"  replied  Mary. 

"  Why,  what  else  could  any  one  think  after  that 
ridiculous  affair  of  the  water?" 

"I  shall  never  forgive  him  for  that,"  Mary  said, 
flushing. 

"  But  he " 

"  No.     Yes,  he  did,  but  we  are  not  engaged. " 

"You  mean  to  say  that  you  refused  him?" 

"Yes." 

Dick  thought  it  over,  tapping  the  while  on  a  tree- 
trunk  like  a  woodpecker. 

"Why?"  he  asked  at  last. 

Mary  shrugged  her  shoulders,  but  said  nothing. 

"You  seemed  exceedingly  friendly,"  said  Dick, 
"when  you  returned  here  together." 

"I  suppose,"  Mary  said  bitterly,  "that  the  proper 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART.  237 

thing  in  the  circumstances  would  have  been  to  wound 
his  feelings  unnecessarily  as  much  as  possible?" 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  Dick  said,  kindly;  "of  course 
I  misunderstood — but  this  will  be  a  blow  to  our 
father." 

Mary  looked  troubled. 

"I  could  not  marry  him,  you  know,  Dick,"  she 
faltered. 

"Certainly  not,"  Dick  said,  "if  you  don't  care 
sufficiently  for  him ;  and  yet  he  seems  a  man  that  a 
girl  might  care  for." 

"  Oh,  he  is,"  Mary  exclaimed.  "  He  was  so*  manly 
and  kind  that  I  wanted  to  be  nice  to  him." 

"  You  have  evidently  made  up  your  mind,  sister 
mine,"  Dick  said,  "to  die  a  spinster." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  with  a  white  face. 

Suddenly  Dick  took  both  her  hands,  and  looked  her 
in  the  face. 

"Do  you  care  for  any  other  person,  Mary?"  he 
asked  sharply. 

Mary  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  return  her 
brother's  gaze.  Her  hands  were  trembling.  She 
tried  to  pull  them  from  him,  but  he  held  her  firmly 
until  she  looked  at  him.  Then  she  drew  up  her  head 
proudly.  Her  hands  ceased  to  shake.  She  had  be- 
come marble  again. 

Dick  was  not  deceived.  He  dropped  her  hands, 
and  leaned  despondently  against  a  tree. 


238  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  Angus — "  he  began. 

"You  must  not,"  Mary  cried;  and  he  stopped 
abruptly. 

"It  is  worse  than  I  could  have  feared,"  Dick 
said. 

"No,  it  is  not,"  said  Mary  quickly.  "It  is  noth- 
ing. I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  It  was  my  fault  bringing  you  together.  I  should 
have  been  more : 

"  No,  it  was  not.  I  met  him  before.  Whom  are 
you  speaking  about?" 

"  Think  of  our  father,  Mary." 

"Oh,  I  have!" 

"  He  is  not  like  you.     How  could  he  dare " 

"Dick,  don't." 

Will  bounced  toward  them  with  a  hop,  step,  and 
jump,  and  Mrs.  Meredith  was  signalling  that  she 
wanted  both. 

"Never  speak  of  this  again,"  Mary  said  in  a  low 
voice  to  Dick  as  they  walked  toward  the  others. 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  feel  forced  to  do  so,"  Dick 
replied. 

"You  will  not,"  Mary  said  in  her  haste.  "But, 
Dick,"  she  added,  anxiously,  "surely  the  others  did 
not  think  what  you  thought?  It  would  be  so  un- 
pleasant for  Sir  Clement." 

"Well,  I  can't  say,"  Dick  answered. 

"  At  all  events,  he  did  not?" 

"  Who  is  he?" 


MARY  OF   THE  STONY  HEART.  239 

"Oh,  Dick,  I  mean  Mr.  Angus!" 

Dick  bit  his  lip,  and  would  have  replied  angrily ; 
but  perhaps  he  loved  this  sister  of  his  more  than  any 
other  person  in  the  world. 

"  Angus,  I  suppose,  noticed  nothing,"  he  answered, 
in  order  to  save  Mary  pain,  "except  that  you  and 
Dowton  seemed  very  good  friends." 

Dick  knew  that  this  was  untrue.  He  did  not  re- 
member then  that  the  good-natured  lies  live  for  ever, 
like  the  others. 

Evening  came  on  before  they  returned  to  the  river, 
and  Sunbury,  now  blazing  with  fireworks,  was  shoot- 
ing flaming  arrows  at  the  sky.  The  sweep  of  water 
at  the  village  was  one  broad  bridge  of  boats,  lighted 
by  torches  and  Chinese  lanterns  of  every  hue.  Stars 
broke  overhead,  and  fell  in  showers.  It  was  only 
possible  to  creep  ahead  by  pulling  in  the  oars  and 
holding  on  to  the  stream  of  craft  of  all  kinds  that 
moved  along  by  inches.  Rob,  who  was  punting  Dick 
and  Mary,  had  to  lay  down  his  pole  and  adopt  the 
same  tactics,  but  boat  and  punt  were  driven  apart, 
and  soon  tangled  hopelessly  in  different  knots. 

"It  is  nearly  eight  o'clock,"  Dick  said,  after  he 
had  given  up  looking  for  the  rest  of  the  party. 
"  You  must  not  lose  your  train,  Angus." 

"  I  thought  you  were  to  stay  overnight,  Mr.  An- 
gus," Mary  said. 

Possibly  she  meant  that  had  she  known  he  had  to 
return  to  London  she  would  have  begun  to  treat  him 


240  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

better  earlier  in  the  day,  but  Rob  thought  she  only 
wanted  to  be  polite  for  the  last  time. 

"I  have  to  be  at  the  Wire,"  he  replied,  "before 
ten." 

Mary,  who  had  not  much  patience  with  business, 
and  fancied  that  it  could  always  be  deferred  until 
next  day  if  one  wanted  to  defer  it  very  much,  said : 
"  Oh !"  and  then  asked,  "  Is  there  not  a  train  that 
would  suit  from  Sunbury?" 

Rob,  blinder  now  than  ever,  thought  that  she 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"  If  I  could  catch  the  8 :15  here,"  he  said,  "  I  would 
reach  Waterloo  before  half-past  nine." 

"  What  do  you  think?"  asked  Dick.  "  There  is  no 
time  to  lose." 

Rob  waited  for  Mary  to  speak,  but  she  said  noth- 
ing. 

"  I  had  better  try  it,"  he  said. 

With  difficulty  the  punt  was  brought  near  a  land- 
ing-stage, and  Rob  jumped  out. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  to  Mary. 

"Good-night,"  she  replied.  Her  mouth  was 
quivering,  but  how  could  he  know? 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  Dick  exclaimed.  "  We  might 
see  him  off,  Mary?"  Mary  hesitated. 

"The  others  might  wonder  what  had  become  of 
us,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  we  need  not  attempt  to  look  for  them  in  this 


MARY  OF  THE  STONY  HEART.  241 

maze,"  her  brother  answered.  "We  shall  only  meet 
them  again  at  the  Tawny  Owl." 

The  punt  was  left  in  charge  of  a  boatman,  and  the 
three  set  off  silently  for  the  station,  Mary  walking  be- 
tween the  two  men.  They  might  have  been  soldiers 
guarding  a  deserter. 

What  were  Mary's  feelings?  She  did  not  fully 
realize  as  yet  that  Rob  thought  she  was  engaged  to 
Dowton.  She  fancied  that  he  was  sulky,  because  a 
circumstance  of  which  he  knew  nothing  made  her 
wish  to  treat  Sir  Clement  with  more  than  usual  con- 
sideration; and  now  she  thought  that  Rob,  having 
brought  it  on  himself,  deserved  to  remain  miserable 
until  he  saw  that  it  was  entirely  his  own  fault.  But 
she  only  wanted  to  be  cruel  to  him  now  to  forgive 
him  for  it  afterward. 

Rob  had  ceased  to  ask  himself  if  it  was  possible 
that  she  had  not  promised  to  be  Dowton's  wife.  His 
anger  had  passed  away.  Her  tender  heart,  he 
thought,  made  her  wish  to  be  good  to  him — for  the 
last  time. 

As  for  Dick,  he  read  the  thoughts  of  both,  and 
inwardly  called  himself  a  villain  for  not  reading  them 
out  aloud.  Yet  by  his  merely  remaining  silent  these 
two  lovers  would  probably  never  meet  again,  and  was 
not  that  what  would  be  best  for  Mary? 

Rob  leaned  out  of  the  carriage  window  to  say  good- 
by,  and  Dick,  ill  at  ease,  turned  his  back  on  the 
16 


242  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

train.  It  had  been  a  hard  day  for  Mary,  and,  as 
Rob  pressed  her  hand  warmly,  a  film  came  over  her 
eyes.  Rob  saw  it,  and  still  he  thought  that  she  was 
only  sorry  for  him.  There  are  far  better  and  nobler 
things  than  loving  a  woman  and  getting  her,  but 
Rob  wanted  Mary  to  know,  by  the  last  look  he  gave 
her,  that  so  long  as  it  meant  her  happiness  his  misery 
was  only  an  unusual  form  of  joy. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

COLONEL   ABINGER   TAKES   COMMAND. 

ONE  misty  morning,  about  three  weeks  after  the 
pic-nic,  Dick  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  the  quad- 
rangle of  Frobisher's  Inn.  He  had  risen  to  catch  an 
early  train,  but  the  gates  were  locked,  and  the  porter 
in  charge  had  vanished  from  his  box.  Dick  chafed, 
and  tore  round  the  inn  in  search  of  him.  It  was 
barely  six  o'clock — which  is  three  hours  after  mid- 
night in  London.  The  windows  of  the  inn  had  dark- 
ened one  by  one,  until  for  hours  the  black  buildings 
had  slept  heavily  with  only  one  eye  open.  Dick  rec- 
ognized the  window,  and  saw  Rob's  shadow  cast  on 
its  white  blind.  He  was  standing  there,  looking  up 
a  little  uneasily,  when  the  porter  tramped  into  sight. 

"Is  Mr.  Angus  often  as  late  as  this?"  Mary's 
brother  paused  to  ask  at  the  gate. 

"Why,  sir,"  the  porter  answered,  "I  am  on  duty 
until  eight  o'clock,  and  as  likely  as  not  he  will  still 
be  sitting  there  when  I  go.  His  shadow  up  there 
has  become  a  sort  of  companion  to  me  in  the  long 
nights,  but  I  sometimes  wonder  what  has  come  over 

the  gentleman  of  late." 

243 


244  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"He  is  busy,  I  suppose;  that  is  all,"  Dick  said, 
sharply. 

The  porter  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  like  one  who 
knew  the  ways  of  literary  hands.  He  probably  wrote 
himself. 

"  Mr.  Angus  only  came  in  from  his  office  at  three 
o'clock,  he  said,  "  and  you  would  think  he  would  have 
had  enough  of  writing  by  that  time.  You  can  see  his 
arm  going  on  the  blind  though  yet,  and  it  won't  be 
out  of  his  common  if  he  has  another  long  walk  be- 
fore he  goes  to  bed." 

"Does  he  walk  so  late  as  this?"  asked  Dick,  to 
whom  six  in  the  morning  was  an  hour  of  the 
night. 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  gentleman  for  walking,"  re- 
plied the  porter,  "  and  when  I  open  the  gate  to  him 
he  is  off  at  six  miles  an  hour.  I  can  hear  the  echo 
of  his  feet  two  or  three  streets  off.  He  doesn't  look 
as  if  he  did  it  for  pleasure  either." 

"  What  else  would  he  do  it  for?" 

"  I  can't  say.  He  looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  run  away 
from  himself." 

Dick  passed  out  with  a  forced  laugh.  He  knew 
that  since  saying  good-by  to  Mary  at  Sunbury  Sta- 
tion Rob  had  hardly  dared  to  stop  working  and  face 
the  future.  The  only  rest  Rob  got  was  when  he  was 
striding  along  the  great  thoroughfares,  where  every 
one's  life  seemed  to  have  a  purpose  except  his  own. 
But  it  was  only  when  he  asked  himself  for  what  end 


COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND.        245 

he  worked  that  he  stopped  working.  There  were 
moments  when  he  could  not  believe  that  it  was  all 
over.  He  saw  himself  dead,  and  the  world  going  on 
as  usual.  When  he  read  what  he  had  written  the 
night  before,  he  wondered  how  people  could  be  inter- 
ested in  such  matters.  The  editor  of  the  Wire  began 
to  think  of  this  stolid  Scotsman  every  time  there 
was  a  hitch  in  the  office,  but  Rob  scarcely  noticed 
that  he  was  making  progress.  It  could  only  mean 
ten  or  twenty  pounds  more  a  month ;  and  what  was 
that  to  a  man  who  had  only  himself  to  think  of,  and 
had  gathered  a  library  on  twenty  shillings  a  week? 
He  bought  some  good  cigars,  however. 

Dick,  who  was  longing  for  his  father's  return  from 
the  Continent  so  that  the  responsibility  for  this  mis- 
erable business  might  be  transferred  to  the  colonel's 
shoulders,  frequently  went  into  Rob's  rooms  to  com- 
fort him,  but  did  not  know  how  to  do  it.  They  sat 
silently  on  opposite  sides  of  the  very  hearth-rug 
which  Mary  had  once  made  a  remark  about — Rob 
had  looked  interestedly  at  the  rug  after  she  went 
away — and  each  thought  that,  but  for  the  other's 
sake,  he  would  rather  be  alone. 

What  Dick  felt  most  keenly  was  Rob's  increased 
regard  for  him.  Rob  never  spoke  of  the  Tawny  Owl 
without  an.  effort,  but  he  showed  that  he  appreciated 
Dick's  unspoken  sympathy.  If  affairs  could  have 
righted  themselves  in  that  way,  Mary's  brother  would 
have  preferred  to  be  turned  with  contumely  out  of 


246  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Rob's  rooms,  where,  as  it  was,  and  despite  his  friend- 
ship for  Rob,  he  seemed  now  to  be  only  present  on 
false  pretences.  Dick  was  formally  engaged  to  Nell 
now,  but  he  tried  at  times  to  have  no  patience  with 
Rob.  Perhaps  he  thought  a  little  sadly  in  his  own 
rooms  that  to  be  engaged  is  not  all  the  world. 

Dick  had  hoped  that  the  misunderstanding  which 
parted  Rob  and  Mary  at  Sunbury  would  keep  them 
apart  without  further  intervention  from  him.  That 
was  not  to  be.  The  next  time  he  went  to  Molesey  he 
was  asked  why  he  had  not  brought  Mr.  Angus  with 
him,  and  though  it  was  not  Mary  who  asked  the 
question,  she  stopped  short  on  her  way  out  of  the  sa- 
loon to  hear  his  answer. 

"  He  did  not  seem  to  want  to  come,"  Dick  replied, 
reluctantly. 

"  I  know  why  Mr.  Angus  would  not  come  with 
you,"  Nell  said  to  Dick  when  they  were  alone;  "he 
thinks  Mary  is  engaged  to  Sir  Clement." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Dick. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Nell;  "you  know  we  all 
thought  so  that  day  we  were  up  the  river." 

"Then  let  him  think  so  if  he  chooses, "  Dick  said 
harshly.  "  It  is  no  affair  of  his. " 

"Oh,  it  is!"  Nell  exclaimed.  "But  I  suppose  it 
would  never  do,  Dick?" 

"What  you  are  thinking  of  is  quite  out  of  the 
question,"  replied  Dick,  feeling  that  it  was  a  cruel 
fate  which  compelled  him  to  act  a  father's  part  to 


COLONEL  ABINOER  TAKES  COMMAND.         247 

Mary ;  "  and  besides,  Mary  does  not  care  for  him  like 
that.  She  told  me  so  herself." 

"Oh,  but  she  does,"  Nell  replied  in  a  tone  of  con- 
viction. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  so?" 

"No,  she  said  she  didn't,"  answered  Nell,  as  if 
that  made  110  difference. 

"  Well,"  said  Dick  wearily,  "  it  is  much  better  that 
Angus  should  not  come  here  again." 

Nevertheless,  when  Dick  returned  to  London  he 
carried  in  his  pocket  an  invitation  to  Rob  to  spend 
the  following  Saturday  at  the  Tawny  Oivl.  It  was 
a  very  nice  note  in  Mary  Abinger's  handwriting, 
and  Dick  would  have  liked  to  drop  it  over  the  Hun- 
gerfield  Bridge.  He  gave  it  to  Rob,  however,  and 
stood  on  the  defensive. 

"  The  note  began :  "  Dear  Mr.  Angus,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith would  be  very  pleased  if  you  could — 

The  blood  came  to  Rob's  face  as  he  saw  the  hand- 
writing, but  it  went  as  quickly. 

"They  ask  me  down  next  Saturday,"  Rob  said 
bluntly  to  Dick,  "but  you  know  why  I  can't  go." 

"  You  had  better  come,"  miserable  Dick  said,  defy- 
ing himself. 

"  She  is  to  marry  Dowton,  is  she  not?"  Rob  asked, 
but  with  no  life  in  his  voice. 

Dick  turned  away  his  head,  to  leave  the  rest  to  fate. 

"So  of  course  I  must  not  go,"  Rob  continued, 
bravely. 


248  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

Dick  did  not  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face,  but  Rob 
put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mary's  brother. 

"I  was  a  madman,"  he  said,  "to  think  that  she 
could  ever  have  cared  for  me ;  but  this  will  not  inter- 
fere with  our  friendship,  Abinger?" 

"Surely  not,"  said  Dick,  taking  Rob's  hand. 

It  was  one  of  those  awful  moments  in  men's  lives 
when  they  allow,  face  to  face,  that  they  like  each 
other. 

Rob  concluded  that  Mrs.  Meredith,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  his  attachment  for  Mary,  saw  no  reason  why 
he  should  not  return  to  the  houseboat,  and  that  cir- 
cumstances had  compelled  Mary  to  write  the  invi- 
tation. His  blundering  honesty  would  not  let  him 
concoct  a  polite  excuse  for  declining  it,  and  Mrs. 
Meredith  took  his  answer  amiss,  while  Nell  dared 
not  say  what  she  thought  for  fear  of  Dick.  Mary 
read  his  note  over  once,  and  then  went  for  a  solitary 
walk  round  the  island.  Rob  saw  her  from  the  tow- 
path,  where  he  had  been  prowling  about  for  hours  in 
hopes  of  catching  a  last  glimpse  of  her.  Her  face 
was  shaded  beneath  her  big  straw  hat,  and  no  baby- 
yacht,  such  as  the  Thames  sports,  ever  glided  down 
the  river  more  prettily  than  she  tripped  along  the 
island  path.  Once  her  white  frock  caught  in  a  dilap- 
idated seat,  and  she  had  to  stoop  to  loosen  it.  Rob's 
heart  stopped  beating  for  a  moment  just  then.  The 
way  Mary  extricated  herself  was  another  revelation. 
He  remembered  having  thought  it  delightful  that 


COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND.        249 

she  seldom  knew  what  day  of  the  month  it  was,  and 
having  looked  on  in  an  ecstasy  while  she  searched 
for  the  pocket  of  her  dress.  The  day  before  Mrs. 
Meredith  had  not  been  able  to  find  her  pocket,  and 
Rob  had  thought  it  foolish  of  ladies  not  to  wear  their 
pockets  where  they  could  be  more  easily  got  at. 

Rob  did  not  know  it,  but  Mary  saw  him.  She  had 
but  to  beckon,  and  in  three  minutes  he  would  have 
been  across  the  ferry.  She  gave  no  sign,  however, 
but  sat  dreamily  on  the  ramshackle  seat  that  patient 
anglers  have  used  until  the  Thames  fishes  must  think 
seat  and  angler  part  of  the  same  vegetable.  Though 
Mary  would  not  for  worlds  have  let  him  know  that 
she  saw  him,  she  did  not  mind  his  standing  afar  off 
and  looking  at  her.  Once  after  that  Rob  started  in- 
voluntarily for  Molesey,  but,  realizing  what  he  was 
about  by  the  time  he  reached  Surbiton,  he  got  out  of 
the  train  there  and  returned  to  London. 

An  uneasy  feeling  possessed  Dick  that  Mary  knew 
of  the  misunderstanding  wThich  kept  Rob  away,  and 
possibly  even  of  her  brother's  share  in  fostering  it. 
If  so,  she  was  too  proud  to  end  it.  He  found  that  if 
he  mentioned  Rob  to  her  she  did  not  answer  a  word. 
Nell's  verbal  experiments  in  the  same  direction  met 
with  a  similar  fate,  and  every  one  was  glad  when  the 
colonel  reappeared  to  take  command. 

Colonel  Abinger  was  only  in  London  for  a  few 
days,  being  on  his  way  to  Glen  Quharity,  the  tenant 
of  which  was  already  telegraphing  him  glorious  fig- 


250  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

ures  about  the  grouse.     Mary  was  going  too,  and  the 
Merediths  were  shortly  to  return  to  Silchester. 

"  There  is  a  Thrums  man  on  this  stair, "  Dick  said 
to  his  father  one  afternoon  in  Frobisher's  Inn — "  a 
particular  friend  of  mine,  though  I  have  treated  him 
villainously. " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  colonel,  who  had  just  come  up  from 
the  houseboat,  "then  you  might  have  him  in,  and 
make  your  difference  up.  Perhaps  he  could  give  me 
some  information  about  the  shooting." 

"  Possibly,"  Dick  said;  "  but  we  have  no  difference 
to  make  up,  because  he  thinks  me  as  honest  as  him 
self.  You  have  met  him,  I  believe." 

"  What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 

"  His  name  is  Angus." 

"  I  can't  recall  any  Angus." 

"Ah,  you  never  knew  him  so  well  as  Mary  and 
I  do." 

"  Mary?"  asked  the  colonel,  looking  up  quickly. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick.  "Do  you  remember  a  man 
from  a  Silchester  paper,  who  was  at  the  Castle  last 
Christmas?" 

"  What !"  cried  the  colonel,  "  an  underbred,  poach- 
ing fellow  who " 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Dick;  "an  excellent  gentleman, 
who  is  to  make  his  mark  here,  and,  as  I  have  said, 
my  very  particular  friend." 

"That  fellow  turned  up  again,"  groaned  the  col- 
onel. 


COLONEL  ABINOER  TAKES  COMMAND.        251 

"  I  have  something  more  to  tell  you  of  him,"  con- 
tinued Dick  remorselessly.  "  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve, as  we  say  on  the  Press  when  hard  up  for  copy, 
that  he  is  in  love  with  Mary." 

The  colonel  sprang  from  his  seat.  "Be  calm," 
said  Dick. 

"I  am  calm, ''cried  the  colonel,  not  saying  another 
word,  so  fearful  was  he  of  what  Dick  might  tell  him 
next. 

"That  would  not  perhaps  so  much  matter,"  Dick 
said,  coming  to  rest  at  the  back  of  a  chair,  "if  it 
were  not  that  Mary  seems  to  have  an  equal  regard 
for  him." 

Colonel  Abinger's  hands  clutched  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  it  was  not  a  look  of  love  he  cast  at  Dick. 

"  If  this  be  true,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  breaking 
in  agitation,  "  I  shall  never  forgive  you,  Richard — 
never!  But  I  don't  believe  it. " 

Dick  felt  sorry  for  his  father. 

"It  is  a  fact  that  has  to  be  faced,"  he  said  more 
gently. 

"  Why,  why,  why,  the  man  is  a  pauper !" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Dick.  "  He  may  be  on  the 
regular  staff  of  the  Wire  any  day  now." 

"  You  dare  to  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me  you 
have  encouraged  this,  this —  •"  cried  the  colonel, 
choking  in  a  rush  of  words. 

"Quite  the  contrary,"  Dick  said;  "I  have  done 
more  than  I  had  any  right  to  do  to  put  an  end  to  it." 


252  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"Then  it  is  ended?" 

"I  can't  say." 

"  It  shall  be  ended !"  shouted  the  colonel,  making 
the  table  groan  under  his  fist. 

"In  a  manner,"  Dick  said,  "you  are  responsible 
for  the  whole  affair.  Do  you  remember  when  you 
were  at  Glen  Quharity  two  or  three  years  ago,  asking 
a  parson  called  Rorrison,  father  of  Rorrison,  the  war 
correspondent,  to  use  his  son's  Press  influence  on  be- 
half of  a  Thrums  man?  Well,  Angus  is  that  man. 
Is  it  not  strange  how  this  has  come  about?" 

"  It  is  enough  to  make  me  hate  myself,"  replied  the 
irate  colonel,  though  it  had  not  quite  such  an  effect 
as  that. 

When  his  father  had  subsided  a  little,  Dick  told 
him  of  what  had  been  happening  in  England  during 
the  last  month  or  two.  There  had  been  a  change  of 
government,  but  the  chief  event  was  the  audacity 
of  a  plebeian  in  casting  his  eyes  on  a  patrician's 
daughter.  What  are  politics  when  the  pipes  in  the 
bath-room  burst? 

"So  you  see,"  Dick  said  in  conclusion,  "I  have 
acted  the  part  of  the  unrelenting  parent  fairly  well, 
and  I  don't  like  it." 

"Had  I  been  in  your  place,"  replied  the  colonel, 
"  I  would  have  acted  it  a  good  deal  better." 

"  You  would  have  told  Angus  that  you  considered 
him,  upon  the  whole,  the  meanest  thing  that  crawls, 
and  that  if  he  came  within  a  radius  of  five  miles  of 


COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND.        253 

your  daughter  you  would  have  the  law  of  him ?  Yes ; 
but  that  sort  of  trespassing  is  not  actionable  nowa- 
days ;  and  besides,  I  don't  know  what  Mary  might 
have  said." 

"  Trespassing !"  echoed  the  colonel ;  "  I  could  have 
had  the  law  of  him  for  trespassing  nearly  a  year  ago." 

"  You  mean  that  time  you  caught  him  fishing  in 
the  Dome?  I  only  heard  of  that  at  second-hand,  but 
I  have  at  least  no  doubt  that  he  fished  to  some  effect." 

"  He  can  fish, "  admitted  the  colonel ;  "  I  should 
like  to  know  what  flies  he  used." 

Dick  laughed. 

"  Angus,"  he  said,  "  is  a  man  with  natural  aptitude 
for  things.  He  does  not,  I  suspect,  even  make  love 
like  a  beginner. " 

"You  are  on  his  side,  Richard." 

"  It  has  not  seemed  like  it  so  far,  but  I  confess  I 
have  certainly  had  enough  of  shuffling." 

"  There  will  be  no  more  shuffling,"  said  the  colonel 
fiercely.  "  I  shall  see  this  man  and  tell  him  what  I 
think  of  him.  As  for  Mary — 

He  paused. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "Mary  is  the  difficulty.  At 
present  I  cannot  even  tell  you  what  she  is  thinking 
of  it  all.  Mary  is  the  one  person  I  could  never  look 
in  the  face  when  I  meditated  an  underhand  action — 
I  remember  how  that  sense  of  honor  of  hers  used  to 
annoy  me  when  I  was  a  boy — and  so  I  have  not 
studied  her  countenance  much  of  late." 


254  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"She  shall  marry  Dowton,"  said  the  colonel  de- 
cisively. 

"It  is  probably  a  pity,  but  I  don't  think  she  will," 
replied  Dick.  "  Of  course  you  can  prevent  her  mar- 
rying Angus  by  simply  refusing  your  consent." 

"Yes,  and  I  shall  refuse  it." 

"  Though  it  should  break  her  heart  she  will  never 
complain,"  said  Dick,  "but  it  does  seem  a  little  hard 
on  Mary  that  we  should  mar  her  life  rather  than 
endure  a  disappointment  ourselves." 

"You  don't  look  at  it  in  the  proper  light,"  said  the 
colonel,  who,  like  most  persons,  made  the  proper  light 
himself;  "  in  saving  her  from  this  man  we  do  her  the 
greatest  kindness  in  our  power." 

"Urn,"  said  Dick,  "of  course.  That  was  how  I 
put  it  to  myself;  but  just  consider  Angus  calmly, 
and  see  what  case  we  have  against  him." 

"  He  is  not  a  gentleman,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  He  ought  not  to  be,  according  to  the  proper  light, 
but  he  is." 

"Pshaw!"  the  colonel  exclaimed  pettishly.  "He 
may  have  worked  himself  up  into  some  sort  of  posi- 
tion, like  other  discontented  men  of  his  class,  but  he 
never  had  a  father." 

"  He  says  he  had  a  very  good  one.  Weigh  him, 
if  you  like  against  Dowton,  who  is  a  good  fellow  in 
his  way,  but  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  did  an  honest 
day's  work  in  his  life.  Dowton 's  whole  existence 


COLONEL  ABINGER  TAKES  COMMAND.         255 

has  been  devoted  to  pleasure-seeking,  while  Angus 
has  been  climbing  up  ever  since  he  was  born,  and 
with  a  heavy  load  on  his  back,  too,  most  of  the  time. 
If  he  goes  on  as  he  is  doing,  he  will  have  both  a  good 
income  and  a  good  position  shortly." 

"  Dowton's  position  is  made,"  said  the  colonel. 

"Exactly,"  said  Dick,  "and  Angus  is  making  his 
for  himself.  Whatever  other  distinction  we  draw 
between  them  is  a  selfish  one,  and  I  question  if  it 
does  us  much  credit." 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  said  the  colonel,  "that  Mary's 
pride  will  make  her  see  this  matter  as  I  do." 

"  It  will  at  least  make  her  sacrifice  herself  for  our 
pride,  if  you  insist  on  that." 

Mary's  father  loved  her  as  he  had  loved  her  mother, 
though  he  liked  to  have  his  own  way  with  both  of 
them.  His  voice  broke  a  little  as  he  answered  Dick. 

"  You  have  a  poor  opinion  of  your  father,  my  boy," 
he  said.  "  I  think  I  would  endure  a  good  deal  if 
Mary  were  to  be  the  happier  for  it." 

Dick  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  himself. 

"Whatever  I  may  say,"  he  answered,  "I  have  at 
least  acted  much  as  you  would  have  done  yourself. 
Forgive  me,  father." 

The  colonel  looked  up  with  a  wan  smile. 

"Let  us  talk  of  your  affairs  rather,  Richard,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  at  least  nothing  to  say  against  Miss 
Meredith." 


256  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Dick  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  chair,  and  then 
stood  up,  thinking  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Are  you  there,  Abinger?"  some  one  called  out. 
"  I  have  something  very  extraordinary  to  tell  you." 

Dick  looked  at  his  father,  and  hesitated.  "  It  is 
Angus,"  he  said. 

"  Let  him  in,"  said  the  colonel. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   BARBER   OF   ROTTEN   ROW. 

ROB  started  when  he  saw  Mary's  father. 

"  We  have  met  before,  Mr.  Angus,"  said  the  colonel 
courteously. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rob  without  a  tremor;  "at 
Dome  Castle,  was  it  not?" 

This  was  the  Angus  who  had  once  been  unable  to 
salute  anybody  without  wondering  what  on  earth 
he  ought  to  say  next.  This  was  the  colonel  whose 
hand  had  gaped  five  minutes  before  for  Rob's  throat. 
The  frown  on  the  face  of  Mary's  father  was  only 
a  protest  against  her  lover's  improved  appearance. 
Rob  was  no  longer  the  hobbledehoy  of  last  Christ- 
mas. He  was  rather  particular  about  the  cut  of 
his  coat.  He  had  forgotten  that  he  was  not  a  colo- 
nel's social  equal.  In.  short,  when  he  entered  the  room 
now  he  knew  what  to  do  with  his  hat.  Their  host 
saw  the  two  men  measuring  each  other.  Dick  never 
smiled,  but  sometimes  his  mouth  twitched,  as  now. 

"  You  had  something  special  to  tell  me,  had  you 
not?"  he  asked  Rob. 

"Well,"    Rob    replied  with   hesitation,  "I  have 

something  for  you  in  my  rooms. " 

17  257 


258  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Suppose  my  father,"  began  Dick,  meaning  to  in- 
vite the  colonel  upstairs,  but  pausing  as  he  saw  Rob's 
brows  contract.  The  colonel  saw  too,  and  resented 
it.  No  man  likes  to  be  left  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
secret. 

"Run  up  yourself,  Abinger,"  Rob  said,  seating 
himself  near  Mary's  father ;  "  and,  stop,  here  are  my 
keys.  I  locked  it  in." 

"Why,"  asked  Dick,  while  his  father  also  looked 
up,  "  have  you  some  savage  animal  up  there?" 

"  No,"  Rob  said,  "  it  is  very  tame." 

Dick  climbed  the  stair,  after  casting  a  quizzical 
look  behind  him,  which  meant  that  he  wondered  how 
long  the  colonel  and  Rob  would  last  in  a  small  room 
together.  He  unlocked  the  door  of  Rob's  chambers 
more  quickly  than  he  opened  it,  for  he  had  no  notion 
of  what  might  be  caged  up  inside,  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  entered  he  stopped,  amazed.  All  men  of  course 
are  amazed  once  in  their  lives — when  they  can  get  a 
girl  to  look  at  them.  This  was  Dick's  second  time. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  when  another  ten 
minutes  can  be  stolen  from  the  day  by  a  readjust- 
ment of  one's  window-curtains.  Rob's  blind,  how- 
ever, had  given  way  in  the  cords,  and  instead  of 
being  pulled  up  was  twisted  into  two  triangles.  Just 
sufficient  light  straggled  through  the  window  to  let 
Dick  see  the  man  who  was  standing  on  the  hearth-rug 
looking  sullenly  at  his  boots.  There  was  a  smell  of 
oil  in  the  room. 


THE  BARBER   OF  ROTTEN  ROW.  259 

"Dowton!"  Dick  exclaimed;  "what  masquerade 
is  this?" 

The  other  put  up  his  elbow,  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow,  and  then  Dick  opened  the  eyes  of  anger. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "it  is  you,  is  it?" 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"Just  stand  there,  my  fine  fellow,"  Dick  said,  "un- 
til I  light  the  gas.  I  must  have  a  better  look  at  you." 

The  stranger  turned  longing  eyes  on  the  door  as 
the  light  struck  him. 

"Not  a  single  step  in  that  direction,"  said  Dick, 
"unless  you  want  to  go  over  the  banisters." 

Abinger  came  closer  to  the  man  who  was  Sir 
Clement  Dowton's  double,  and  looked  him  over.  He 
wore  a  white  linen  jacket,  and  an  apron  to  match, 
and  it  would  have  been  less  easy  to  mistake  him  for 
a  baronet  aping  the  barber  than  it  had  been  for  the 
barber  to  ape  the  baronet. 

"Your  name?"  asked  Dick. 

"Josephs,"  the  other  mumbled. 

"  You  are  a  barber,  I  presume?" 

"I  follow  the  profession  of  hair-dressing,"  replied 
Josephs,  with  his  first  show  of  spirit. 

Had  Dick  not  possessed  an  inscrutable  face,  Josephs 
would  have  known  that  his  inquisitor  was  suffering 
from  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  Dick  had  just  remem- 
bered that  his  father  was  downstairs. 

"  Well,  Josephs,  I  shall  have  to  hand  you  over  to 
the  police." 


260  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"I  think  not,"  said  Josephs  in  his  gentlemanly 
voice. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Dick. 

"Because  then  it  would  all  coine  out." 

"  What  would  all  come  out?" 

"  The  way  your  father  was  deceived.  The  society 
papers  would  make  a  great  deal  of  it,  and  he  would 
not  like  that." 

Dick  groaned,  though  the  other  did  not  hear  him. 

"You  read  the  society  journals,  Josephs?" 

"  Rather !"  said  Josephs. 

"Perhaps  you  write  for  them?" 

Josephs  did  not  say. 

"Well,  how  were  you  brought  here?"  Dick  asked. 

"Your  friend,"  said  Joseph,  sulkily,  "came  into 
our  place  of  business  in  Southampton  Row  half  an 
hour  ago  and  saw  me.  He  insisted  on  bringing  me 
here  at  once  in  a  cab.  I  wanted  to  put  on  a  black 
coat,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it." 

"  Ah,  then,  I  suppose  you  gave  Mr.  Angus  the  full 
confession  of  your  roguery  as  you  came  along?" 

"  He  would  not  let  me  speak,"  said  Josephs.  " He 
said  it  was  no  affair  of  his." 

"No?  Then  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  favor  me 
with  the  pretty  story." 

Dick  lit  a  cigar  and  seated  himself.  The  sham 
baronet  looked  undecidedly  at  a  chair. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Dick,  "you  can  stand." 

Josephs  told  his  talc  demurely,  occasionally  with  a 


THE   BARBER    OF  ROTTEN  ROW.  261 

gleam  of  humor,  and  sometimes  with  a  sigh.  His 
ambition  to  be  a  gentleman,  but  with  no  desire  to 
know  the  way,  had  come  to  him  one  day  in  his  youth 
when  another  gentleman  flung  a  sixpence  at  him. 
In  a  moment  Josephs  saw  what  it  was  to  belong  to 
the  upper  circles.  He  hurried  to  a  street  corner  to 
get  his  boots  blacked,  tossed  the  menial  the  sixpence, 
telling  him  to  keep  the  change,  and  returned  home 
in  an  ecstasy,  penniless,  but  with  an  object  in  life. 
That  object  was  to  do  it  again. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Josephs  slaved  merrily  dur- 
ing the  week,  but  had  never  any  money  by  Monday 
morning.  He  was  a  gentleman  every  Saturday 
evening.  Then  he  lived ;  for  the  remainder  of  the 
week  he  was  a  barber.  One  of  his  delights  at  this 
period  was  to  have  his  hair  cut  at  Truefitt's,  and 
complain  that  it  was  badly  done.  Having  reproved 
his  attendant  in  a  gentlemanly  way,  he  tipped  him 
handsomely  and  retired  in  a  glory.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  he  joined  a  Conservative  association. 

Soon  afterward  Josephs  was  to  be  seen  in  Rotten 
Row,  in  elegant  apparel,  hanging  over  the  railing. 
He  bowed  and  raised  his  hat  to  the  ladies  who  took 
his  fancy,  and,  though  they  did  not  respond,  glowed 
with  the  sensation  of  being  practically  a  man  of 
fashion.  Then  he  returned  to  the  shop. 

The  years  glided  by,  and  Josephs  discovered  that 
he  was  perfectly  content  to  remain  a  hair-dresser  if 
he  could  be  a  gentleman  now  and  again.  Having 


262  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

supped  once  in  a  fashionable  restaurant,  he  was  sat- 
isfied for  a  fortnight  or  so  with  a  sausage  and  onions 
at  home.  Then  the  craving  came  back.  He  saved 
up  for  two  months  on  one  occasion,  and  then  took 
Saturday  to  Monday  at  Cookham,  where  he  passed 
as  Henry  K.  Talbot  Devereux.  He  was  known  to 
the  waiters  and  boatmen  there  as  the  gentleman  who 
had  quite  a  pleasure  in  tossing  them  half-crowns, 
and  for  a  month  afterward  he  had  sausage  without 
onions.  So  far  this  holiday  had  been  the  memory 
of  his  life.  He  studied  the  manners  and  language  of 
the  gentlemen  who  came  to  the  shop  in  which  he  was 
employed,  and  began  to  dream  of  a  big  thing  an- 
nually. He  had  learned  long  ago  that  he  was  remark- 
ably good-looking. 

For  a  whole  year  Josephs  abstained  from  being  a 
gentleman  except  in  the  smallest  way,  for  he  was 
burning  to  have  a  handle  to  his  name,  and  feared 
that  it  could  not  be  done  at  less  than  twenty  pounds. 

His  week's  holiday  came,  and  found  Josephs  not 
ready  for  it.  He  had  only  twelve  pounds.  With  a 
self-denial  that  was  magnificent  he  crushed  Lis  as- 
pirations, took  only  two  days  of  delight  at  Brighton, 
and  continued  to  save  up  for  the  title.  Next  summer 
saw  him  at  the  Angler's  Retreat,  near  Dome  Castle. 
"  Sir  Clement  Dowton  "  was  the  name  on  his  Glad- 
stone bag.  A  dozen  times  a  day  he  looked  at  it  till 
it  frightened  him,  and  then  he  tore  the  label  off. 
Having  done  so,  he  put  on  a  fresh  one. 


THE   BARBER   OF   ROTTEN  ROW.  263 

Josephs  had  selected  his  baronetcy  with  due  care. 
Years  previously  he  had  been  told  that  he  looked  like 
the  twin-brother  of  Sir  Clement  Dowton,  and  on  in- 
quiry he  had  learned  that  the  baronet  was  not  in 
England.  As  for  the  Angler's  Retreat,  he  went 
there  because  he  had  heard  that  it  was  frequented  by 
persons  in  the  rank  of  life  to  which  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  belong  for  the  next  week.  He  had  never 
heard  of  Colonel  Abinger  until  they  met.  The  rest 
is  known.  Josephs  dwelt  on  his  residence  at  Dome 
Castle  with  his  eyes  shut,  like  a  street  arab  lingering 
lovingly  over  the  grating  of  a  bakery. 

"Well,  you  are  a  very  admirable  rogue,"  Dick 
said,  when  Josephs  had  brought  his  story  to  an  end, 
"and  though  I  shall  never  be  proud  again,  your 
fluency  excuses  our  blindness.  Where  did  you  pick 
it  up?"  The  barber  glowed  with  gratification. 

"  It  came  naturally  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  I  was 
intended  for  a  gentleman.  I  dare  say,  now,  I  am 
about  the  only  case  on  record  of  a  man  who  took  to 
pickles  and  French  sauces  the  first  time  he  tried  them. 
Mushrooms  were  not  an  acquired  taste  with  me,  nor 
black  coffee,  nor  caviare,  nor  liqueurs,  and  I  enjoy 
celery  with  my  cheese.  What  I  liked  best  of  all  was 
the  little  round  glasses  you  dip  your  fingers  into  when 
the  dinner  is  finished.  I  dream  of  them  still." 

"  You  are  burst  up  for  the  present,  Josephs,  I  pre- 
sume?" 

"Yes,  but  I  shall  be  able  to  do  something  in  a 


264  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

small  way  next  Christmas.  I  should  like  to  put  it 
off  till  summer,  but  I  can't." 

"There  must  be  no  more  donning  the  name  of 
Dowton,"  said  Dick,  trying  to  be  stern. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  give  that  up,"  the  barber 
said  with  a  sigh.  "  I  had  to  bolt,  you  see,  last  time, 
before  I  meant  to  go." 

"  Ah,  you  have  not  told  me  yet  the  why  and  where- 
fore of  those  sudden  disappearances.  Excuse  my 
saying  so,  Josephs,  but  they  were  scarcely  gentle- 
manly." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Josephs  sadly,  "but  however 
carefully  one  plans  a  thing,  it  may  take  a  wrong 
turning.  The  first  time  I  was  at  the  castle  I  meant 
to  leave  in  a  carriage  and  pair,  waving  my  handker- 
chief, but  it  could  not  be  done  at  the  money." 

"  The  colonel  would  have  sent  you  to  Silchester  in 
his  own  trap. " 

"  Ah,  I  wanted  a  brougham.  You  see  I  had  been 
a  little  extravagant  at  the  inn,  and  I  could  not  sum- 
mon up  courage  to  leave  the  castle  without  tipping 
the  servants  all  round." 

"  So  you  waited  till  you  were  penniless,  and  then 
stole  away?" 

"Not  quite  penniless,"  said  Josephs;  "I  had  three 
pounds  left,  but — 

He  hestitated. 

"You  see,"  he  blurted  out,  blushing  at  last,  "my 


THE  BARBER    OF  ROTTEN  ROW.  2G5 

old  mother  is  dependent  on  me,  and  I  kept  the  three 
pounds  for  her." 

Dick  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Josephs,"  he  said,  "be- 
cause I  meant  to  box  your  ears  presently,  and  I  don't 
know  that  I  can  do  it  now.  How  about  the  sudden 
termination  to  the  visit  you  honored  the  colonel  with 
last  Christmas?" 

"I  had  to  go,"  said  Josephs,  "because  I  read  that 
Sir  Clement  Dowton  had  returned  to  England.  Be- 
sides, I  was  due  at  the  shop." 

"  But  you  had  an  elegant  time  while  your  money 
held  out?" 

Josephs  wiped  a  smile  from  his  face. 

"It  was  grand,"  he  said.  "I  shall  never  know 
such  days  again." 

"I  hope  not,  Josephs.  Was  there  no  streak  of 
cloud  in  those  halcyon  days?" 

The  barber  sighed  heavily. 

"Ay,  there  was,"  he  said,  "hair  oil." 

"Explain  yourself,  my  gentle  hairdresser." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Josephs,  "don't  use  hair  oil. 
I  can't  live  without  it.  That  is  my  only  stumbling- 
block  to  being  a  gentleman." 

He  put  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  again 
Dick  sniffed  the  odor  of  oil. 

"  I  had  several  bottles  of  it  with  me,"  Josephs  con- 
tinued, "but  I  dared  not  use  it." 


26G  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"This  is  interesting,"  said  Dick.  "I  should  like 
to  know  now,  from  you,  who  have  tried  both  profes- 
sions, whether  you  prefer  the  gentleman  to  the 
barber." 

"I  do  and  I  don't,"  answered  Josephs.  "Hair- 
dressing  suits  me  best  as  a  business,  but  gentility 
for  pleasure.  A  fortnight  of  the  gentleman  sets  me 
up  for  the  year.  I  should  not  like  to  be  a  gentleman 
all  the  year  round." 

"  The  hair  oil  is  an  insurmountable  obstacle. " 

"  Yes, "  said  the  barber ;  "  besides,  to  be  a  gentleman 
is  rather  hard  work. " 

"I  dare  say  it  is,"  said  Dick,  "when  you  take  a 
short  cut  to  it.  Well,  I  presume  this  interview  is  at 
an  end.  You  may  go." 

He  jerked  his  foot  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  but 
Josephs  hesitated. 

"Colonel  Abinger  well?"  asked  the  barber. 

"The  door,  Josephs,"  replied  Dick. 

"And  Miss  Abinger?" 

Dick  gave  the  barber  a  look  that  hurried  him  out 
of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  Abinger's  mouth 
twitched  every  time  he  took  the  cigar  out  of  it,  until 
he  started  to  his  feet. 

'*  I  have  forgotten  that  Angus  and  my  father  are 
together,"  he  murmured.  "I  wonder,"  he  asked 
himself,  as  he  returned  to  his  own  chambers,  "  how 
the  colonel  will  take  this?  Must  he  be  told?  I  think 


THE   BARBER    OF   ROTTEN   ROW.  267 

Colonel  Abinger  was  told,  as  soon  as  Rob  had  left, 
and  it  added  so  much  fuel  to  his  passion  that  it  put 
the  fire  out. 

"If  the  story  gets  abroad,"  he  said,  with  a  shud- 
der, "  I  shall  never  hold  up  my  head  again." 

"It  is  a  safe  secret,"  Dick  answered ;  "the  fellow 
would  not  dare  to  speak  of  it  anywhere.  He  knows 
what  that  would  mean  for  himself." 

"  Angus  knows  of  it.  Was  it  like  the  chivalrous 
soul  you  make  him  to  flout  this  matter  before  us?" 

"  You  are  hard  up  for  an  argument  against  An- 
gus, father.  I  made  him  promise  to  let  me  know  if 
he  ever  came  on  the  track  of  the  impostor,  and  you 
saw  how  anxious  he  was  to  keep  the  discovery  from 
you.  He  asked  me  at  the  door,  when  he  was  going 
out,  not  to  mention  it  to  either  you  or  Mary." 

"Confound  him!"  cried  the  colonel  testily;  "but 
he  is  right  about  Mary ;  we  need  not  speak  of  it  to 
her.  She  never  liked  the  fellow." 

"That  was  fortunate,"  said  Dick,  "but  you  did, 
father.  You  thought  that  Josephs  was  a  gentleman, 
and  you  say  that  Angus  is  not.  Perhaps  you  have 
made  a  mistake  in  both  cases." 

"I  say  nothing  against  Angus,"  replied  the  colo- 
nel, "except  that  I  don't  want  him  to  marry  my 
daughter. " 

"  Oh,  you  and  he  got  on  well  together,  then?" 

"  He  can  talk.     The  man  has  improved." 

"You  did  not  talk  about  Mary?"  asked  Dick. 


268  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"We  never  mentioned  her;  how  could  I,  when  he 
supposes  her  engaged  to  Dowton?  I  shall  talk  about 
him  to  her,  though." 

Two  days  afterward  Dick  asked  his  father  if  he 
had  talked  to  Mary  about  Angus  yet. 

"No,  Richard,"  the  old  man  admitted  feebly,  "I 
hare  not.  The  fact  is,  that  she  is  looking  so  proud 
and  stately  just  now  that  I  feel  nervous  about 
broaching  the  subject." 

"  That  is  exactly  how  I  feel,"  said  Dick;  "  but  Nell 
told  me  to-day  that,  despite  her  hauteur  before  us, 
Mary  is  wearing  her  heart  away." 

The  colonel's  fingers  beat  restlessly  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  does  care  for  Angus,"  he  said. 

"As  much  as  he  cares  for  her,  I  believe,"  replied 
Dick.  "Just  think,"  he  added  bitterly,  "that  these 
two  people  love  each  other  for  the  best  that  is  in  them, 
one  of  the  rarest  things  in  life,  and  are  nevertheless 
to  be  kept  apart.  Look  here." 

Dick  drew  aside  his  blind,  and  pointed  to  a  light 
cast  on  the  opposite  wall  from  a  higher  window. 

"That  is  Angus'  light,"  he  said.  "On  such  a 
night  as  this,  when  he  is  not  wanted  at  the  Wire, 
you  will  see  that  light  blazing  into  the  morning. 
Watch  that  moving  shadow ;  it  is  the  reflection  of 
his  arm  as  he  sits  there  writing,  writing,  writing 
with  nothing  to  write  for,  and  only  despair  to  face 
him  when  he  stops.  Is  it  not  too  bad?" 


THE  BARBER    OF  ROTTEN  ROW.  269 

"They  will  forget  each  other  in  time,"  said  the 
colonel.  "  Let  Dowton  have  another  chance.  He  is 
to  be  at  the  Lodge." 

"But  if  they  don't  forget  each  other;  if  Dowton 
fails  again,  and  Mary  continues  to  eat  her  heart  in 
silence,  what  then?" 

"We  shall  see." 

"  Look  here,  father,  I  cannot  play  this  pitiful  part 
before  Angus  forever.  Let  us  make  a  bargain. 
Dowton  gets  a  second  chance ;  if  he  does  not  succeed, 
it  is  Angus'  turn.  Do  you  promise  me  so  much?" 

"I  cannot  say,"  replied  the  colonel  thoughtfully. 
"  It  may  come  to  that." 

Eob  was  as  late  in  retiring  to  rest  that  night  as 
Dick  had  predicted,  but  he  wrote  less  than  usual. 
He  had  something  to  think  of  as  he  paced  his  room, 
for,  unlike  her  father  and  brother,  he  knew  that 
when  Mary  was  a  romantic  school-girl  she  had  dressed 
the  sham  baronet,  as  a  child  may  dress  her  doll,  in 
the  virtues  of  a  hero.  He  shuddered  to  think  of  her 
humiliation  should  she  ever  hear  the  true  story  of 
Josephs — as  she  never  did.  Yet  many  a  lady  of 
high  degree  has  given  her  heart  to  a  baronet  who 
was  better  fitted  to  be  a  barber. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ROB  PULLS  HIMSELF  TOGETHER. 

IN  a  London  fog  the  street-lamps  are  up  and  about, 
running  maliciously  at  pedestrians.  He  is  in  love 
or  writing  a  book  who  is  struck  by  one  without  re- 
monstrating. One  night  that  autumn  a  fog  crept 
through  London  a  month  before  it  was  due,  and  Rob 
met  a  lamp-post  the  following  afternoon  on  his  way 
home  from  the  Wire  office.  He  passed  on  without  a 
word,  though  he  was  not  writing  a  book.  Something 
had  happened  that  day,  and,  but  for  Mary  Abinger, 
Rob  would  have  been  wishing  that  his  mother  could 
see  him  now. 

The  editor  of  the  Wire  had  called  him  into  a  pri- 
vate room,  in  which  many  a  young  gentleman,  who 
only  wanted  a  chance  to  put  the  world  to  rights,  has 
quaked,  hat  in  hand,  before  now.  It  is  the  dusty 
sanctum  from  which  Mr.  Rowbotham  wearily  distrib- 
utes glory  or  consternation,  sometimes  with  nig- 
gardly hand  and  occasionally  like  an  African  explorer 
scattering  largess  among  the  natives.  Mr.  Row- 
botham might  be  even  a  greater  editor  than  he  is  if 
he  was  sure  that  it  is  quite  the  proper  thing  for  so 

distinguished  a  man  as  himself  to  believe  in  any- 
270 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER.  271 

thing,  and  some  people  think  that  his  politics  are  to 
explain  away  to-day  the  position  he  took  up  yester- 
day. He  seldom  writes  himself,  and,  while  direct- 
ing the  line  to  be  adopted  by  his  staff,  he  smokes  a 
cigar,  which  he  likes  to  probe  with  their  pens.  He  is 
pale  and  thin,  and  has  roving  eyes,  got  from  always 
being  on  the  alert  against  aspirants. 

All  the  chairs  in  the  editorial  room,  except  Mr. 
Rowbotham's  own,  had  been  converted,  like  the 
mantelpiece,  into  temporary  bookcases.  Rob  tumbled 
the  books  off  one  (your  "  Inquiry  into  the  State  of 
Ireland"  was  among  them,  gentle  reader)  much  as  a 
coal-heaver  topples  his  load  into  a  cellar,  or  like  a 
housewife  emptying  her  apron. 

"You  suit  me  very  well,  Angus,"  the  editor  said. 
"  You  have  no  lurking  desire  to  write  a  book,  have 
you?" 

"No,"  Rob  answered;  "since  I  joined  the  Press 
that  ambition  seems  to  have  gone  from  me." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Rowbotham,  his  tone  imply- 
ing that  Rob  now  left  the  court  without  a  stain  upon 
his  character.  The  editor's  cigar  went  out,  and  he 
made  a  spill  of  a  page  from  "Sonnets  of  the  Woods," 
which  had  just  come  in  for  review. 

"  As  you  know,"  the  editor  continued,  "  I  have  been 
looking  about  me  for  a  leader-writer  for  the  last  year. 
You  have  a  way  of  keeping  your  head  that  I  like, 
and  your  style  is  not  so  villanously  bad.  Are  you 
prepared  to  join  us?" 


272  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Rob. 

"Very  well.  You  will  start  with  £800  a  year. 
Ricketts,  as  you  may  have  heard,  has  half  as  much 
again  as  that,  but  he  has  been  with  us  some  time." 

"  All  right, "  said  Rob  calmly,  though  his  chest 
was  swelling.  He  used  to  receive  an  order  for  a 
sack  of  shavings  in  the  same  tone. 

"You  expected  this,  I  dare  say?"  asked  the  editor. 

"  Scarcely,"  said  Rob.  "  I  thought  you  would  offer 
the  appointment  to  Marriott ;  he  is  a  much  cleverer 
man  than  I  am." 

"Yes,"  assented  Mr.  Rowbotham,  more  readily 
than  Rob  thought  necessary.  "  I  have  had  Marriott 
in  my  eye  for  some  time,  but  I  rather  think  Marriott 
is  a  genius,  and  so  he  would  not  do  for  us." 

"  You  never  had  that  suspicion  of  me?"  asked  Rob 
a  little  blankly. 

"Never, "said  the  editor  frankly.  "I  saw  from 
the  first  that  you  were  a  man  to  be  trusted.  Moder- 
ate Radicalism  is  our  policy,  and  not  even  Ricketts 
can  advocate  moderation  so  vehemently  as  you  do. 
You  fight  for  it  with  a  flail.  By-the-way,  you  are 
Scotch,  I  think?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rob. 

"I  only  asked,"  the  editor  explained,  "because  of 
the  shall  and  the  will  difficulty.  Have  you  got  over 
that  yet." 

"No,"  Rob  said  sadly,  "and  never  will." 


ROB   PULLS  HIMSELF  TOGETHER.  273 

"  I  shall  warn  the  proof-readers  to  be  on  the  alert," 
Mr.  Rowbotham  said,  laughing,  though  Rob  did  not 
see  what  at.  "Dine  with  me  at  the  Garrick  on 
Wednesday  week,  will  you?" 

Rob  nodded,  and  was  retiring,  when  the  editor 
called  after  him : 

"  You  are  not  a  married  man,  Angus?" 

"  No,"  said  Rob  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"Ah,  you  should  marry,"  recommended  Mr.  Row- 
botham, who  is  a  bachelor.  "  You  would  be  worth 
another  two  hundred  a  year  to  us  then.  I  wish  I 
could  find  the  time  to  do  it  myself." 

Rob  left  the  office  a  made  man,  but  looking  as  if  it 
all  had  happened  some  time  ago.  There  were  men 
shivering  in  Fleet  Street  as  he  passed  down  it  who 
had  come  to  London  on  the  same  day  as  himself, 
every  one  with  a  tragic  story  to  tell  now,  and  some 
already  seeking  the  double  death  that  is  called  drown- 
ing care.  Shadows  of  university  graduates  passed 
him  in  the  fog  who  would  have  been  glad  to  carry 
his  bag.  That  night  a  sandwich-board  man,  who 
had  once  had  a  thousand  a  year,  crept  into  the 
Thames.  Yet  Rob  bored  his  way  home,  feeling  that 
it  was  all  in  vain. 

He  stopped  at  Abinger's  door  to  tell  him  what  had 

happened,  but  the  chambers  were  locked.     More  like 

a  man  who  had  lost  £800  a  year  than  one  who  had 

just  been  offered  it,  he  mounted  to  his  own  rooms, 

18 


274  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

hardly  noticing  that  the  door  was  now  ajar.  The 
blackness  of  night  was  in  the  sitting-room,  and  a 
smell  of  burning  leather. 

"Another  pair  of  slippers  gone,"  said  a  voice  from 
the  fireplace.  It  was  Dick,  and  if  he  had  not  jumped 
out  of  one  of  the  slippers  he  would  have  been  on  fire 
himself.  Long  experience  had  told  him  the  exact 
moment  to  jump. 

"  I  tried  your  door,"  Rob  said.  "  I  have  news  for 
you." 

"Well,"  said  Dick,  " I  forced  my  way  in  here  be- 
cause I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  resolved  not 
to  miss  you.  Who  speaks  first?  My  news  is  bad — 
at  least  for  me." 

"Mine  is  good,"  said  Rob;  "we  had  better  finish 
up  with  it." 

"Ah,"  Dick  replied,  "but  when  you  hear  mine  you 
may  not  care  to  tell  me  yours. " 

Dick  spoke  first,  however,  and  ever  afterward  was 
glad  that  he  had  done  so. 

"Look  here,  Angus,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "I  don't 
know  that  Mary  is  engaged  to  Dowton." 

Rob  stood  up  and  sat  down  again. 

"Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  talking  in  that  way," 
he  said  shortly.  "  She  was  engaged  to  him  six 


"No,"  said  Dick,  "she  was  not,  though  for  all  1 
know  she  may  be  now." 

Then  Dick  told  his  tale  under  the  fire  of  Rob's 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF  TOGETHER.  275 

eyes.  When  it  was  ended  Rob  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  stared  silently  for  several  minutes  at  a  vase  on 
the  mantelpiece.  Dick  continued  talking,  but  Rob 
did  not  hear  a  word. 

"I  can't  sit  here,  Abinger,"  he  said;  "there  is  not 
room  to  think.  I  shall  be  back  presently." 

He  was  gone  into  the  fog  the  next  moment.  "At 
it  again,"  muttered  the  porter,  as  Rob  swung  past  and 
was  lost  ten  paces  off.  He  was  back  in  an  hour, 
walking  more  slowly. 

"When  the  colonel  writes  to  you,"  he  said,  as  he 
walked  into  his  room,  "  does  he  make  any  mention  of 
Dowton?" 

"He  never  writes,"  Dick  answered;  "he  only  tele- 
graphs me  now  and  again  when  a  messenger  from 
the  lodge  happens  to  be  in  Thrums." 

"Miss  Abinger  writes?" 

"  Yes.  I  know  from  her  that  Dowton  is  still  there, 
but  that  is  all." 

"  He  would  not  have  remained  so  long,"  said  Rob, 
"  unless — unless " 

"I  don't  know,"  Dick  answered.  "You  see  it 
would  all  depend  on  Mary.  She  had  a  soft  heart  for 
Dowton  the  day  she  refused  him,  but  I  am  not  sure 
how  she  would  take  his  reappearance  on  the  scene 
again.  If  she  resented  it,  I  don't  think  the  boldest 
baronet  that  breathes  would  venture  to  propose  to 
Mary  in  her  shell." 

"  The  colonel  might  press  her?" 


276  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  Hardly,  I  think,  to  marry  a  man  she  does  not 
care  for.  No,  you  do  him  an  injustice.  What  my 
father  would  like  to  have  is  the  power  to  compel  her 
to  care  for  Dowton.  No  doubt  he  would  exercise 
that  if  it  was  his." 

"  Miss  Abinger  says  nothing — sends  no  messages — 
I  mean,  does  sho  ever  mention  me  when  she  writes?" 

"Never  a  word,"  said  Dick.  "Don't  look  pale, 
man;  it  is  a  good  sign.  Women  go  by  contraries, 
they  say.  Besides,  Mary  is  not  like  Mahomet.  If 
the  mountain  won't  go  to  her,  she  will  never  como  to 
the  mountain." 

Rob  started  and  looked  at  his  hat. 

"  You  can't  walk  to  Glen  Quharity  Lodge  to-night," 
said  Dick,  following  Rob's  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  should  go  at  all?" 

"  Why — well,  you  see,  it  is  this  awkward  want  of 
an  income  that  spoils  everything.  Now,  if  you  could 
persuade  Rowbotham  to  give  you  a  thousand  a  year, 
that  might  have  its  influence  on  my  father." 

"I  told  you,"  exclaimed  Rob;  "no,  of  course  I  did 
not.  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Wire  to-day  at  £800." 

"Your  hand,  young  man,"  said  Dick,  very  nearly 
becoming  excited.  "  Then  that  is  all  right.  On  the 
Press  every  one  with  a  good  income  can  add  two 
hundred  a  year  to  it.  It  is  only  those  who  need  tho 
two  hundred  that  cannot  get  it." 

"You  think  I  should  go  north?"  said  Rob,  with 
the  whistle  of  the  train  already  in  his  ears. 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER.  277 

"  Ah,  it  is  not  my  affair,"  answered  Dick ;  "  I  have 
done  my  duty.  I  promised  to  give  Dowton  a  fair 
chance  and  he  has  had  it.  I  don't  know  what  use 
he  has  made  of  it,  remember.  You  have  overlooked 
my  share  in  this  business,  and  I  retire  now." 

"You  are  against  me  still,  Abinger." 

"No,  Angus,  on  my  word  I  am  not.  You  are 
as  good  a  man  as  Dowton,  and  if  Mary  thinks  you 
better " 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  to  signify  that  he  had 
freed  them  of  a  load  of  prejudice. 

"  But  does  she?"  said  Rob. 

"You  will  have  to  ask  herself,"  replied  Dick. 

"Yes  but  when?" 

"  She  will  probably  be  up  in  town  next  season." 

"  Next  season !"  exclaimed  Rob ;  "  as  well  say  next 
century." 

"Well,  if  that  is  too  long  to  wait,  suppose  you 
come  to  Dome  Castle  with  me  at  Christmas?" 

Rob  pushed  the  invitation  from  him  contempt- 
uously. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  he  said,  looking  at  Dick  de- 
fiantly, "why  I  should  not  go  north  to-night." 

"  It  would  be  a  little  hurried,  would  it  not?"  Dick 
said  to  his  pipe. 

"  No, "  Rob  answered,  with  a  happy  inspiration.  "  I 
meant  to  go  to  Thrums  just  now,  for  a  few  days  at 
any  rate.  Rowbotham  does  not  need  me  until  Fri- 
day." 


278  WHEX  A    MAX'S   SIXGLE. 

Rob  looked  up  and  •  saw  Dick's  mouth  twitching. 
He  tried  to  stare  Mary's  brother  out  of  countenance, 
but  could  not  do  it. 

Night  probably  came  on  that  Tuesday  as  usual,  for 
Nature  is  as  much  as  man  a  slave  to  habit ;  but  it  was 
not  required  to  darken  London.  If  all  the  clocks  and 
watches  had  broken  their  mainsprings  no  one  could 
have  told  whether  it  was  at  noon  or  midnight  that 
Rob  left  for  Scotland.  It  would  have  been  equally 
impossible  to  say  from  his  face  whether  he  was  off 
to  a  marriage  or  a  funeral.  He  did  not  know  himself. 

"This  human  nature  is. a  curious  thing,"  thought 
Dick  as  he  returned  to  his  rooms.  "  Here  are  two 
of  us  in  misery,  the  one  because  he  fears  he  is  not 
going  to  be  married,  and  the  other  because  he  knows 
he  is." 

He  stretched  himself  out  on  two  chairs. 

"  Neither  of  us,  of  course,  is  really  miserable.  An- 
gus is  not,  for  he  is  in  love ;  and  I  am  not,  for — ' 
He  paused  and  looked  at  his  pipe. 

"  No,  I  am  not  miserable ;  how  could  a  man  be 
miserable  who  has  two  chairs  to  lie  upon,  and  a 
tobacco  jar  at  his  elbow?  I  fancy,  though,  that  I 
am  just  saved  from  misery  by  lack  of  sentiment. 

"  Curious  to  remember  that  I  was  once  sentimental 
with  the  best  of  them.     This  is  the  Richard  who  sat 
up  all  night  writing  poems  to  Nell's  eyebrows.     Ah, 
poor  Nell! 
k    "  I  wonder,  is  it  my  fault  that  my  passion  burned 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF  TOGETHER.  279 

itself  out  in  one  little  crackle?  With  most  men,  if 
the  books  tell  true,  the  first  fire  only  goes  out  after 
the  second  is  kindled,  but  I  seem  to  have  no  more 
sticks  to  light. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married,  though  I  would  much 
rather  remain  single.  My  wife  will  be  the  only  girl 
I  ever  loved,  and  I  like  her  still  more  than  any  other 
girl  I  know.  Though  I  shuddered  just  now  when  I 
thought  of  matrimony,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
we  shall  get  on  very  well  together. 

"  I  should  have  preferred  her  to  prove  as  fickle  as 
myself ;  but  how  true  she  has  remained  to  me !  Not 
to  me,  for  it  is  not  the  real  Dick  Abinger  she  cares 
for,  and  so  I  don't  know  that  Nell's  love  is  of  the 
kind  to  make  a  man  conceited.  Is  marriage  a  rash 
experiment  when  the  woman  loves  the  man  for  quali- 
ties he  does  not  possess,  and  has  not  discovered  in 
years  of  constant  intercourse  the  little  that  is  really 
lovable  in  him?  Whatever  I  say  to  Nell  is  taken  to 
mean  the  exact  reverse  of  what  I  do  mean ;  she  reads 
my  writings  upside  down,  as  one  might  say;  she 
cries  if  I  speak  to  her  of  anything  more  serious  than 
flowers  and  waltzes,  but  she  thinks  me  divine  when 
I  treat  her  like  an  infant. 

"  Is  it  weakness  or  strength  that  has  kept  me  what 
the  world  would  call  true  to  Nell?  Is  a  man  neces- 
sarily a  villain  because  love  dies  out  of  his  heart,  or 
has  his  reason  some  right  to  think  the  affair  over  and 
show  him  where  he  stands?" 


280  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"Yes,  Nell  after  all  gets  the  worse  of  the  bargain. 
She  will  have  for  a  husband  a  man  who  is  evidently 
incapable  of  a  lasting  affection  for  anybody.  That, 
I  suppose,  means  that  I  find  myself  the  only  really 
interesting  person  I  know.  Yet,  I  think,  Richard, 
you  would  at  times  rather  be  somebody  else — anybody 
almost  would  do. 

"  It  is  a  little  humiliating  to  remember  that  I  have 
been  lying  to  Angus  for  the  last  month  or  two — I, 
who  always  thought  I  had  such  a  noble  admiration 
for  the  truth.  I  did  it  very  easily  too,  so  I  suppose 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  I  really  am  a  very  poor 
sort  of  creature.  I  wonder  if  it  was  for  Mary's  sake 
I  lied,  or  merely  because  it  would  have  been  too 
troublesome  to  speak  the  truth?  Except  by  fits  and 
starts  I  have  ceased  apparently  to  be  interested  in 
anything.  The  only  thing  nowadays  that  rouses  my 
indignation  is  the  attempt  on  any  one's  part  to  draw 
me  into  an  argument  on  any  subject  under  the  sun. 
Here  is  this  Irish  question;  I  can  pump  up  an 
article  in  three  paragraphs  on  it,  but  I  don't  really 
seem  to  care  whether  it  is  ever  settled  or  not.  Should 
we  have  a  republic?  I  don't  mind ;  it  is  all  the  same 
to  me;  but  don't  give  me  the  casting  vote.  Is  Glad- 
stone a  god?  is  Gladstone  the  devil?  They  say  he  is 
one  or  other,  and  I  am  content  to  let  them  fight  it  out. 
How  long  is  it  since  I  gave  a  thought  to  religion? 
What  am  I?  There  are  men  who  come  into  this  room 
and  announce  that  they  are  agnostics,  as  if  that  were 


ROB   PULLS   HIMSELF   TOGETHER.  281 

a  new  profession.  Am  I  an  agnostic?  I  think  not; 
and  if  I  was  I  would  keep  it  to  myself.  My  soul 
does  not  trouble  me  at  all,  except  for  five  minutes 
or  so  now  and  again.  On  the  whole  I  seem  to  be 
indifferent  as  to  whether  I  have  one,  or  what  is  to 
become  of  it." 

Dick  rose  and  paced  the  room,  until  his  face  gave 
the  lie  to  everything  he  had  told  himself.  His  lips 
quivered  and  his  whole  body  shook.  He  stood  in  an 
agony  against  the  mantelpiece  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  emotions  had  possessions  of  him  compared 
with  which  the  emotions  of  any  other  person  de- 
scribed in  this  book  were  but  children's  fancies.  By- 
and-bye  he  became  calm  and  began  to  undress.  Sud- 
denly he  remembered  something.  He  rummaged 
for  his  keys  in  the  pocket  of  the  coat  he  had  cast  off, 
and,  opening  his  desk,  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  that 
he  took  from  it :  "  Scalping  Knife,  Man  Frightened 
to  Get  Married  (humorous) !" 

"  My  God !"  he  groaned,  "  I  would  write  an  article, 
I  think,  on  my  mother's  coffin." 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

THE  AUDACITY  OP  ROB  ANGUS. 

COLONEL  ABINGER  had  allowed  the  other  sports- 
men to  wander  away  from  him,  and  now  lay  on  his 
back  on  Ben  Shee,  occasionally  raking  the  glen  of 
Quharity  through  a  field-glass.  It  was  a  purple 
world  he  saw  under  a  sky  of  gray  and  blue ;  with  a 
white  thread  that  was  the  dusty  road  twisting  round 
a  heavy  sweep  of  mountain-side,  and  a  broken  thread 
of  silver  that  was  the  Quharity  straggling  back  and 
forward  in  the  valley  like  a  stream  reluctant  to  be 
gone.  To  the  naked  eye  they  were  bare  black  peaks 
that  overlooked  the  glen  from  every  side  but  the 
south.  It  was  not  the  mountains,  however,  but  the 
road  that  interested  the  colonel.  By-and-bye  he  was 
sitting  up  frowning,  for  this  is  what  he  saw. 

From  the  clump  of  trees  to  the  north  that  keeps 
Glen  Quharity  Lodge  warm  in  winter  a  man  and  a 
lady  emerged  on  horseback.  They  had  not  advanced 
a  hundred  yards  when  the  male  rider  turned  back,  as 
if  for  something  he  had  forgotten.  The  lady  rode 
forward  alone. 

A  pedestrian  came  into  sight  about  the  same  time, 

a  mile  to  the  south  of  the  colonel.     The  field-glass 

282 


THE  AUDACITY  OF  ROB   ANGUS.  283 

lost  him  a  dozen  times,  but  he  was  approaching 
rapidly,  and  he  and  the  rider  must  soon  meet. 

The  nearest  habitation  to  Colonel  Abinger  was  the 
school-house,  which  was  some  four  hundred  yards 
distant.  It  stands  on  the  other  side  of  the  white 
road,  and  is  approached  by  a  straight  path  down 
which  heavy  carts  can  jolt  in  the  summer  months. 
Every  time  the  old  dominie  goes  up  and  down  this 
path,  his  boots  take  part  of  it  along  with  them. 
There  is  a  stone  in  his  house,  close  to  the  door,  which 
is  chipped  and  scarred  owing  to  his  habit  of  kicking 
it  to  get  the  mud  off  his  boots  before  he  goes  inside. 
The  dominie  was  at  present  sitting  listlessly  on  the 
dyke  that  accompanies  this  path  to  the  high  road. 

The  colonel  was  taking  no  interest  in  the  pedes- 
trian as  yet,  but  he  sighed  as  he  watched  the  lady 
ride  slowly  forward.  Where  the  road  had  broken 
through  a  bump  in  the  valley  her  lithe  form  in  green 
stood  out  as  sharply  as  a  silhouette  against  the  high, 
ragged  bank  of  white  earth.  The  colonel  had  recog- 
nized his  daughter,  and  his  face  was  troubled. 

During  all  the  time  they  had  been  at  the  lodge  he 
had  never  mentioned  Rob  Angus'  name  to  Mary, 
chiefly  because  she  had  not  given  him  a  chance  to 
lose  his  temper.  She  had  been  more  demonstrative 
in  her  love  for  her  father  than  of  old,  and  had  antici- 
pated his  wants  in  a  way  that  gratified  him  at  the 
moment  but  disturbed  him  afterward.  In  his  pres- 
ence she  seemed  quite  gayly  happy,  but  he  had  noticed 


284  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

that  she  liked  to  slip  away  on  to  the  hill-side  by  her- 
self, and  sit  there  alone  for  hours  at  a  time.  Sir 
Clement  Dowton  was  still  at  the  lodge,  but  the 
colonel  was  despondent.  He  knew  very  well  that, 
without  his  consent,  Mary  would  never  give  her  hand 
to  any  man,  but  he  was  equally  aware  that  there  his 
power  ended.  Where  she  got  her  notions  he  did  not 
know,  but  since  she  became  his  housekeeper  she  had 
impressed  the  colonel  curiously.  He  was  always  find- 
ing himself  taking  for  granted  her  purity  to  be  some- 
thing so  fine  that  it  behoved  him  to  be  careful.  Mary 
affected  other  people  in  the  same  way.  They  came 
to  know  that  she  was  a  very  rare  person,  and  so  in 
her  company  they  became  almost  fine  persons  them- 
selves. Thus  the  natural  goodness  of  mankind  as- 
serted itself.  Of  late  the  colonel  had  felt  Mary's 
presence  more  than  ever ;  he  believed  in  her  so  much 
(often  to  his  annoyance)  that  she  was  a  religion  to 
him. 

While  Colonel  Abinger  sat  in  the  heather,  perturbed 
in  mind  and  trying  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was 
Mary's  fault,  the  pedestrian  drew  near  rapidly.  Evi- 
dently he  and  the  rider  would  meet  near  the  school- 
house,  and  before  the  male  rider,  who  had  again 
emerged  from  the  clump  of  trees,  could  make  up  on 
his  companion. 

The  dominie,  who  did  not  have  such  a  slice  of  the 
outer  world  as  this  every  day,  came  to  the  end  of  his 
path  to  have  a  look  at  the  persons  who  were  nearing 


THE  AUDACITY  OF  ROB   ANGUS.  285 

him  from  opposite  directions.  He  saw  that  the 
pedestrian  wore  an  elegant  silk  hat  and  black  coat, 
such  as  were  not  to  be  got  in  these  parts.  Only  the 
delve  with  which  he  walked  suggested  a  man  from 
Thrums. 

The  pedestrian  made  a  remark  about  the  weather 
as  he  hurried  past  the  dominie.  He  was  now  so  near 
the  colonel  that  his  face  could  be  distinctly  seen 
through  the  field-glass.  The  colonel  winced,  and 
turned  white  and  red.  Then  the  field-glass  jumped 
quickly  to  the  horsewoman.  The  pedestrian  started 
as  he  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  her,  and  at  the  same 
moment  her  face  lit  up  with  joy.  The  colonel  saw  it 
and  felt  a  pain  at  his  heart.  The  glass  shook  in  his 
hand,  thus  bringing  the  dominie  accidentally  into 
view. 

The  dominie  was  now  worth  watching.  No  sooner 
had  the  pedestrian  passed  him  than  the  old  man 
crouched  so  as  not  to  seem  noticeable,  and  ran  after 
him.  When  he  was  within  ten  yards  of  his  quarry 
he  came  to  rest,  and  the  field-glass  told  that  he  was 
gaping.  Then  the  dominie  turned  round  and  hurried 
back  to  the  school-house,  muttering  as  he  ran : 

"  It's  Rob  Angus  come  home  in  a  him  hat,  and 
that's  one  o'  the  leddies  frae  the  lodge.  I  maun 
awa  to  Thrums  wi'  this.  Rob  Angus,  Robbie  An- 
gus, michty,  what  a  toon  there'll  be  aboot  this !" 

Rob  walked  up  to  Mary  Abinger,  feeling  that  to 
bid  her  good  afternoon  was  like  saying,  "Thank 


286  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

you,"  in  a  church  when  the  organ  stops.  He  felt 
himself  a  saw-miller  again. 

The  finest  thing  in  the  world  is  that  a  woman  can 
pass  through  anything,  and  remain  pure.  Mary  had 
never  been  put  to  the  test,  but  she  could  have  stood 
it.  Her  soul  spoke  in  her  face,  and  as  Rob  looked  at 
her  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  seemed  a  profanation. 
Yet  Mary  was  not  all  soul.  She  understood,  for  in- 
stance, why  Rob  stammered  so  much  as  he  took  her 
hand,  and  she  was  glad  that  she  had  on  her  green 
habit  instead  of  the  black  one. 

Sir  Clement  Dowton  rode  forward  smartly  to  make 
up  on  Miss  Abinger,  and  saw  her  a  hundred  yards 
before  him  from  the  top  of  a  bump  which  the  road 
climbs.  She  was  leaning  forward  in  her  saddle  talk- 
ing to  a  man  whom  he  recognized  at  once.  The 
baronet's  first  thought  was  to  ride  on,but  he  drew  rein. 

"I  have  had  my  chance  and  failed,"  he  said  to 
himself  grimly.  "  Why  should  not  he  have  his?" 

With  a  last  look  at  the  woman  he  loved,  Sir 
Clement  turned  his  horse,  and  so  rode  out  of  Mary 
Abinger's  life.  She  had  not  even  seen  him. 

"  Papa  has  been  out  shooting,"  she  said  to  Rob,  who 
was  trying  to  begin,  "  and  I  am  on  my  way  to  meet 
him.  Sir  Clement  Dowton  is  with  me." 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  for  the  baronet,  and 
Rob,  who  had  been  aimlessly  putting  his  fingers 
through  her  horse's  mane,  started  at  the  mention  of 
Sir  Clement's  name. 


THE   AUDACITY  OF  ROB   ANGUS.  287 

"  Miss  Abinger,"  he  said,  "  I  have  come  here  to  ask 
you  one  question.  I  have  no  right  to  put  it,  but  Sir 
Clement,  he " 

"If  you  want  to  see  him,"  said  Mary,  "you  have 
just  come  in  time.  I  believe  he  is  starting  for  a  tour 
of  the  world  in  a  week  or  so." 

Rob  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  from  that  moment 
he  liked  Dowton.  But  he  had  himself  to  think  of  at 
present.  He  remembered  that  he  had  another  ques- 
tion to  ask  Miss  Abinger. 

"  It  is  a  very  long  time  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  sitting  straight  in  her  saddle, 
"  you  never  came  to  the  houseboat  those  last  weeks. 
I  suppose  you  were  too  busy." 

"That  was  not  what  kept  me  away,"  Rob  said. 
"You  know  it  was  not." 

Mary  looked  behind  her  again. 

"  There  was  nothing  else,"  she  said ;  "  I  cannot  un- 
derstand what  is  detaining  Sir  Clement." 

"  I  thought "  Rob  began. 

"You  should  not,"  said  Mary  looking  at  the  school- 
house. 

"  But  your  brother "  Rob  was  saying,  when  he 

paused,  not  wanting  to  incriminate  Dick. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mary,  whose  intellect  was  very 
clear  to-day.  She  knew  why  Rob  stopped  short,  and 
there  was  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  were  turned 
upon  him. 

"Your  brother  advised  me  to  come  north,"  Rob 


288  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

said,  but  Mary  did  not  answer.  "  I  would  not  have 
done  so,"  he  continued,  "if  I  had  known  that  you 
knew  I  stayed  away  from  the  houseboat." 

"  I  think  I  must  ride  on,"  Mary  said. 

"No,"  said  Rob,  in  a  voice  that  put  it  out  of  the 
question.  So  Mary  must  have  thought,  for  she  re- 
mained there.  "You  thought  it  better,"  he  went 
on  huskily,  "  that,  whatever  the  cause,  I  should  not 
see  }Tou  again." 

Mary  was  bending  her  riding-whip  into  a  bow. 

"  Did  you  not?"  cried  Rob  a  little  fiercely. 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  why  did  you  do  it?"  he  said. 

"  I  didn't  do  anything,"  said  Mary. 

"  In  all  London,"  said  Rob,  speaking  at  a  venture, 
"there  has  not  been  one  person  for  the  last  two 
months  so  miserable  as  myself." 

Mary's  eyes  wandered  from  Rob's  face  far  over 
the  heather.  There  might  be  tears  in  her  eyes  at  any 
moment.  The  colonel  was  looking. 

"That  stream,"  said  Rob  with  a  mighty  effort, 
pointing  to  the  distant  Whunny,  "  twists  round  the 
hill  on  which  we  are  now  standing,  and  runs  through 
Thrums.  It  turns  the  wheel  of  a  saw-mill  there,  and 
in  that  saw-mill  I  was  born  and  worked  with  my 
father  for  the  great  part  of  my  life." 

"I  have  seen  it,"  said  Mary,  with  her  head  turned 
away.  "  I  have  been  in  it." 

"  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill  that  my  sis- 


THE   AUDACITY  OF  ROB   AtfGUS.  289 

ter's  child  was  found  dead.  Had  she  lived  I  might 
never  have  seen  you." 

"One  of  the  gamekeepers,"  said  Mary,  "showed 
me  the  place  where  you  found  her  with  her  foot  in 
the  water." 

"  I  have  driven  a  cart  through  this  glen  a  hundred 
times,"  continued  Rob  doggedly.  "You  see  that 
wooden  shed  at  the  school-house ;  it  was  my  father 
and  I  who  put  it  up.  It  seems  but  yesterday  since  I 
carted  the  boards  from  Thrums." 

"The  dear  boards,"  murmured  Mary. 

"  Many  a  day  my  mother  has  walked  from  the  saw- 
mill into  this  glen  with  my  dinner  in  a  basket." 

"Good  mother,"  said  Mary. 

"Now,"  said  Rob,  "now  when  I  come  back  here 
and  see  you,  I  remember  what  I  am.  I  have  lived 
for  you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you,  but  however 
hard  I  might  toil  for  you  there  must  always  be  a 
difference  between  us." 

He  was  standing  on  the  high  bank,  and  their  faces 
were  very  close.  Mary  shuddered. 

"I  only  frighten  you,"  cried  Rob. 

Mary  raised  her  head,  and,  though  her  face  was 
wet,  she  smiled.  Her  hand  went  out  to  him,  but  she 
noticed  it  and  drew  it  back.  Rob  saw  it  too,  but  did 
not  seek  to  take  it.  They  were  looking  at  each  other 
bravely.  His  eyes  proposed  to  her,  while  he  could 
not  say  a  word,  and  hers  accepted  him.  On  the  hills 

men  were  shooting  birds. 
19 


290  WHEN  A   MAX'S   SINGLE. 

Rob  knew  that  Mary  loved  him.  An  awe  fell 
upon  him.  "  What  am  I?"  he  cried,  and  Mary  put 
her  hand  in  his.  "Don't,  dear,"  she  said,  as  his  face 
sank  on  it;  and  he  raised  his  head  and  could  not 
speak. 

The  colonel  sighed,  and  his  cheeks  were  red.  His 
head  sank  upon  his  hands.  He  was  young  again, 
and  walking  down  an  endless  lane  of  green  with  a 
maiden  by  his  side,  and  her  hand  was  in  his.  They 
sat  down  by  the  side  of  a  running  stream.  Her  fair 
head  lay  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  was  his  wife.  The 
colonel's  lips  moved  as  if  he  were  saying  to  himself 
words  of  love,  and  his  arms  went  out  to  her  who  had 
been  dead  this  many  a  year,  and  a  tear,  perhaps  the 
last  he  ever  shed,  ran  down  his  cheek. 

"I  should  not,"  Mary  said  at  last,  "have  let  you 
talk  to  me  like  this." 

Rob  looked  up  with  sudden  misgiving. 

"  Why  not?"  he  cried. 

"  Papa, "  she  said,  "  will  never  consent,  and — I  knew 
that;  I  have  known  it  all  along." 

"I  am  not  going  to  give  you  up  now,"  Rob  said 
passionately,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  would  run  away 
with  her  at  that  moment. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  listen  to  you,"  said  Mary.  "  I 
did  not  mean  to  do  so,  but  I — I" — her  voice  sank 
into  a  whisper — "  I  wanted  to  know " 

"  To  know  that  I  loved  you !  Ah,  you  have  known 
all  along." 


THE  AUDACITY  OF  ROB   ANGUS.  291 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "but  I  wanted — I  wanted  to 
hear  you  say  so  yourself." 

Rob's  arms  went  over  her  like  a  hoop. 

"Rob,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "you  must  go  away, 
and  never  see  me  any  more." 

"I  won't,"  cried  Rob;  "you  are  to  be  my  wife. 
He  shall  not  part  us." 

"  It  can  never  be,"  said  Mary. 

"  I  shall  see  him — I  shall  compel  him  to  consent." 

Mary  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  want  to  marry  me,"  Rob  said  fiercely, 
drawing  back  from  her.  "  You  do  not  care  for  me. 
What  made  you  say  you  did?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back  now,"  Mary  said,  and  the 
softness  of  her  voice  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
passion  in  his. 

"I  shall  go  with  you,"  Rob  answered,  "and  see 
your  father." 

"No,  no,"  said  Mary;  "we  must  say  good-by 
here,  now." 

Rob  turned  on  her  with  all  the  dourness  of  the  An- 
guses  in  him. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  left  her.  Mary  put  her 
hand  to  her  heart,  but  he  was  already  turning  back. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  so  much 
harder  to  me  than  to  you?" 

"Mary,  my  beloved,"  Rob  cried.  She  swayed  in 
her  saddle,  and  if  he  had  not  been  there  to  catch  her 
she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 


292  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

Rob  heard  a  footstep  at  his  side,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  Colonel  Abinger.  The  old  man's  face  was 
white,  but  there  was  a  soft  look  in  his  eye,  and  he 
stooped  to  take  Mary  to  his  breast. 

"No,"  Rob  said,  with  his  teeth  closed,  "you  can't 
have  her.  She's  mine." 

"Yes,"  the  colonel  said  sadly;  "she's  yours." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    VERDICT    OF    THRUMS. 

OF  a  mild  Saturday  evening  in  the  following  May, 
Sandersy  Riach,  telegraph  boy,  emerged  from  the 
Thrums  post-office,  and,  holding  his  head  high, 
strutted  off  toward  the  Tenements.  He  had  on  his 
uniform,  and  several  other  boys  flung  gutters  at  it, 
to  show  that  they  were  as  good  as  he  was. 

"Wha's  deid,  Sandersy?"  housewives  flung  open 
their  windows  to  ask. 

"It's  no  death,"  Sandersy  replied.  "Na,  na,  far 
frae  that.  I  daurna  tell  ye  what  it  is,  because  its 
agin'  the  regalations,  but  it'll  cause  a  michty  wy  doin' 
in  Thrums  this  nicht." 

"Juist  whisper  what  it's  aboot,  Sandersy,  my 
laddie." 

"  It  canna  be  done,  Easie ;  na,  na.  But  them  'at 
wants  to  hear  the  noos,  follow  me  to  Tammas  Hag- 
gart's." 

Off  Sandersy  went,  with  some  women  and  a  dozen 
children  at  his  heels,  but  he  did  not  find  Tammas  in. 

"I  winna  hae't  lyin'  aboot  here,"  Chirsty,  the  wife 
of  Tammas,  said,  eying  the  telegram  as  something 
that  might  go  off  at  any  moment;  "ye'll  better  tak' 


294  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

it  on  to  'imsel'.  He's  takkin'  a  dander  through  the 
bury  in '-ground  wi'  Snecky  Hobart." 

Sandersy  marched  through  the  east  town  end  at  the 
head  of  his  following  and  climed  the  steep,  straight 
brae  that  leads  to  the  cemetery.  There  he  came  upon 
the  stone-breaker  and  the  bellman  strolling  from  grave 
to  grave.  Silva  McQuhatty  and  Sam'l  Todd  were 
also  in  the  burying-ground  for  pleasure,  and  they 
hobbled  toward  Tammas  when  they  saw  the  telegram 
in  his  hand. 

"  'Thomas  Haggart, '  "  the  stone-breaker  murmured, 
reading  out  his  own  name  on  the  envelope,  "'Tene- 
ments, Thrums. '  "  Then  he  stared  thoughtfully  at 
his  neighbors  to  see  whether  that  could  be  looked 
upon  as  news.  It  was  his  first  telegram. 

"Ay,  ay,  deary  me,"  said  Silva  mournfully. 

"She's  no  very  expliceet,  do  ye  think?"  asked 
Sam'l  Todd. 

Snecky  Hobart,  however,  as  an  official  himself,  had 
a  general  notion  of  how  affairs  of  state  are  conducted. 

"Rip  her  open,  Tammas,"  he  suggested.  "That's 
but  the  shell,  I'm  thinkinV 

"Does  she  open?"  asked  Tammas  with  a  grin. 

He  opened  the  telegram  gingerly,  and  sat  down 
on  a  prostrate  tombstone  to  consider  it.  Snecky's 
fingers  tingled  to  get  at  it. 

"It  begins  in  the  same  wy,"  the  stone-breaker 
said  deliberately:  "'Thomas  Haggart,  Tenements, 
Thrums. ' " 


THE  VERDICT  OF  THRUMS.  295 

"Ay,  ay,  deary  me,"  repeated  Silva. 

"  That  means  it's  to  you,"  Snecky  said  to  Tammas. 

"Next,"  continued  Tammas,  "comes  'Elizabeth 
Haggart,  101  Lower  Fish  Street,  Whitechapel,  Lon- 
don.'" 

"She's  a'  names  thegether,"  muttered  Sam'l  Todd 
in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"She's  a'  richt,"  said  Snecky,  nodding  to  Tammas 
to  proceed.  "  Elizabeth  Haggart — that's  wha  the 
telegram  comes  frae." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  the  stone-breaker  doubtfully,  "but 
I  ken  no  Elizabeth  Haggart." 

"Hoots,"  said  Snecky;  "it's  your  ain  dochter  Lis- 
beth." 

"Keeps  us  a',"  said  Tammas,  "so  it  is.  I  didna 
unerstan'  at  first ;  ye  see  we  aye  called  her  Leeby. 
Ay,  an'  that's  whaur  she  bides  in  London  too." 

"Lads,  lads,"  said  Silva,  "an'  is  Leeby  gone? 
Ay,  ay,  we  all  fade  as  a  leaf ;  so  we  do. " 

"What!"  cried  Tammas,  his  hand  beginning  to 
shake. 

"  Havers,"  said  Snecky,  "ye  hinna  come  to  the  tele- 
gram proper  yet,  Tammas.  What  mair  does  it  say?" 

The  stone-breaker  conned  over  the  words,  and  by- 
and-bye  his  face  wrinkled  with  excitement.  He 
puffed  his  cheeks,  and  then  let  the  air  rush  through 
his  mouth  like  an  escape  of  gas. 

"It's  Rob  Angus,"  he  blurted  out. 

"Man,  man,"  said    Silva,   "an'    him    lookit  sae 


296  WHEN  A    MAN'S  SINGLE. 

strong  an*  snod  when  he  was  here  i'  the  back  end  o' 
last  year. " 

"  He's  no  deid,"  cried  Tammas,  "  he's  mairit.  Lis- 
ten, lads:  'The  thing  is  true  Rob  Angus  has  married 
the  colonel's  daughter  at  a  castle  Rob  Angus  has 
married  the  colonel.'" 

"Losh  me!"  said  Sam'l,  "I  never  believed  he 
would  manage't." 

"Ay,  but  she  reads  queer,"  said  Tammas.  " First 
she  says  Rob's  mairit  the  dochter,  an'  neist  'at  he's 
mairit  the  colonel." 

"  Twa  o'  them !"  cried  Silva,  who  was  now  in  a 
state  to  believe  anything. 

Snecky  seized  the  telegram  and  thought  it  over. 

"I  see  what  Leeby's  done,"  he  said  admiringly. 
"  Ye 're  restreected  to  twenty  words  in  a  telegram, 
an'  Leeby  found  she  had  said  a'  she  had  to  say 
in  fourteen  words,  so  she's  repeated  herseP  to  get  her 
full  shilling's  worth." 

"  Ye've  hit  it,  Snecky, "  said  Tammas.  "  It's  juist 
what  Leeby  would  do.  She  was  aye  a  michty  thrifty, 
shrewd  crittur." 

"  A  shilling's  an  awfu'  siller  to  fling  awa,  though," 
said  Sam'l. 

"It'sweel  spent  in  this  case,"  retorted  Tammas, 
sticking  up  for  his  own;  "there  hasna  ben  sich  a 
startler  in  Thrums  since  the  English  kirk-steeple 
fell." 

"Ye  can  see    Angus'    saw -mill   frae   here,"  ex- 


THE  VERDICT   OF   THRUMS,  297 

claimed  Silva,  implying  that  this  made  the  affair 
more  wonderful  than  ever. 

"  So  ye  can,"  said  Snecky,  gazing  at  it  as  if  it  were 
some  curiosity  that  had  been  introduced  into  Thrums 
in  the  night  time. 

"  To  think,"  muttered  Tammas,  "  'at  the  saw-miller 
doon  there  should  be  mairit  in  a  castle.  It's  beyond 
all.  Oh,  it's  beyond,  it's  beyond." 

"Sal,  though,"  said  Sam'l  suspiciously,  "I  wud 
like  a  sicht  o'  the  castle.  I  mind  o'  readin'  in  a 
booky  'at  every  Englishman's  hoose  is  his  castle,  so 
I'm  thinkin'  castle's  but  a  name  in  the  sooth  for  an 
ord'nar  hoose." 

"  Weel  a  wat,  ye  never  can  trust  thae  foreigners," 
said  Silva;  "it's  weel  beknown  'at  English  is  an 
awful  pertentious  langitch  too.  They  slither  ower 
their  words  in  a  hurried  wy  'at  I  canna  say  I  like ; 
no,  I  canna  say  I  like  it." 

"  Will  Leeby  hae  seen  the  castle?"  asked  Sam'l. 

"Na,"  said  Tammas;  "it's  a  lang  wy  frae  Lon- 
don; she'U  juist  hae  heard  o'  the  mairitch." 

"  It'll  hae  made  a  commotion  in  London,  I  dinna 
doot,"  said  Snecky,  "but,  lads,  it  proves  as  the 
colonel  man  stuck  to  Rob." 

"  Ay,  I  hardly  expected  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  Snecky,  ye're  richt.  Rob'll  hao  man- 
age't  him.  Weel,  I  will  say  this  for  Rob  Angus, 
he  was  a  crittur  'at  was  terrible  fond  o'  gettin'  his 
ain  wy." 


293  WHEN  A   MAN'S  SINGLE. 

"  The  leddy  had  smoothed  the  thing  ower  wi'  her 
f aither,"  said  Tammas,  who  was  notorious  for  his 
knowledge  of  women ;  "  ay,  an'  there  was  a  brither, 
ye  mind?  Ane  o'  the  servants  up  at  the  lodge  said 
to  Kitty  Wobster  'at  they  were  to  be  mairit  the  same 
day,  so  I've  nae  doot  they  w.ere." 

"Ay,"  said  Sam'l,  pricking  up  his  ears,  "an'  wha 
was  the  brither  gettin'?" 

"  Weel,  it  was  juist  gossip,  ye  understan'.  But  I 
heard  tell  'at  the  leddy  had  a  tremendous  tocher,  an' 
'at  she  was  called  Meredith." 

"Meredith!"  exclaimed  Silva  McQuhatty ;  " what 
queer  names  some  o'  thae  English  fowk  has;  ay;  I 
prefer  the  ord'nar  names  inysel'." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Snecky,  looking  curiously  at  the 
others,  "what  Rob  has  in  the  wy  o'  wages?" 

"  That's  been  discuss't  in  every  hoose  in  Thrums," 
said  Sam'l;  "but  there's  no  doubt  it's  high,  for  it's 
a  salary;  ay,  it's  no  wages." 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  Rob  has,"  Silva  said,  "  but  some 
o'  thae  writers  makes  awfu'  sums.  There's  the 
yeditor  o'  the  Tilliedrum  Weekly  Herald  noo.  I 
canna  tell  his  income,  but  I  have  it  frae  Dite  Deu- 
chars,  wha  kens,  'at  he  pays  twa-an' -twenty  pound 
o'  rent  for's  hoose." 

"  Ay,  but  Rob's  no  a  yeditor,"  said  Sam'l. 

"  Ye're  far  below  the  mark  wi'  Rob's  salary,"  said 
Tammas.  "  My  ain  opeenion  is  'at  he  has  a  great 


THE  VERDICT  OF  THRUMS.  299 

hoose  in  London  by  this  time,  wi'  twa  or  three  ser- 
vants, an'  a  lad  in  knickerbuckers  to  stan'  ahent  his 
chair  and  reach  ower  him  to  cut  the  roast  beef." 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Sneclry,  who  had  heard  of 
such  things,  "  but  if  it  is  it'll  irritate  Rob  michty  no 
to  get  cuttin'  the  roast  'imsel'.  Thae  Angus'  aye 
like't  to  do  a'thing  for  themsel's." 

"There's  the  poseetion  to  think  o',"  said  Tammas. 

"Thrums'll  be  a  busy  toon  this  nicht,"  said  Sam'l, 
"  when  it  hears  the  noos.  Ay,  I  maun  awa  an'  tell 
the  wife." 

Having  said  this,  Sam'l  sat  down  on  the  tomb- 
stone. 

"It'll  send  mair  laddies  on  to  the  papers  oot  o' 
Thrums,"  said  Tammas.  "  There's  three  awa'  to  the 
printin'  trade  since  Rob  was  here,  an'  Susie  Byars 
is  to  send  little  Joey  to  the  business  as  sune  as  he's 
auld  eneuch." 

"Joey '11  do  weel  in  thenoospaper  line,"  said  Silva; 
"  he  writes  a  better  han'  than  Rob  Angus  already." 

"  Weel,  weel,  that's  the  main  thing,  lads." 

Sam'l  moved  off  slowly  to  take  the  news  into  the 
east  town  end. 

"It's  to  Rob's  creedit,"  said  Tammas  to  the  two 
men  remaining,  "  'at  he  wasna  at  all  prood  when  he 
came  back.  Ay,  he  called  on  me  very  frank  like,  as 
ye'll  mind,  an'  I  wasna  in,  so  Chirsty  dusts  a  chair 
for  'im,  and  comes  to  look  for  mo.  Lads,  I  was  fair 


300  WHEN  A  MAN'S  SINGLE. 

ashamed  to  see  'at  in  her  fluster  she'd  gien  him  a 
common  chair,  when  there  was  hair-bottomed  anes  in 
the  other  room.  Ye  may  be  sure  I  sent  her  for  a 
better  chair,  an'  got  him  to  change,  though  he  was 
sort  o'  mad  like  at  havin'  to  shift.  That  was  his 
ind'pendence  again." 

"I  was  aye  callin'  him  Rob,"  said  Snecky,  "for- 
gettin'  what  a  grand  man  he  was  noo,  an',  of  coorse, 
I  corrected  myseP,  and  said  Mr.  Angus.  Weel,  when 
I'd  dune  that  mebbe  a  dozen  times  he  was  fair 
stampin's  feet  wi'  rage,  as  ye  micht  say.  Ay,  there 
was  a  want  o'  patience  aboot  Rob  Angus." 

"He  slippit  a  gold  sovereign  into  my  hand,"  said 
Silva,  "  but,  losh,  he  wudna  lat  me  thank  'im.  "  Hold 
yer  tongue,'  he  says,  or  words  to  that  effec',  when  I 
insistit  on't." 

At  the  foot  of  the  burying-ground  road  Sam'l  Todd 
could  be  seen  laying  it  off  about  iiob  to  a  little  crowd 
of  men  and  women.  Snecky  looked  at  them  till  he 
could  look  no  longer. 

"I  maun  awa  wi'  the  noos  to  the  w"ast  toon  end," 
he  said,  and  by-and-bye  he  went,  climbing  the  dyke 
for  a  short  cut. 

"Weel,  weel,  Rob  Angus  is  mairit,"  said  Silva  to 
Tammas. 

"So  he  is,  Silva,"  said  the  stone-maker. 

"  It's  an  experiment, "  said  Silva. 

"  Ye  may  say  so,  but  Rob  was  aye  venturesome." 


THE  VERDICT  OF  THRUMS.  301 

"Ye  saw  the  leddy,  Tammas?" 

"  Ay,  man,  I  did  mair  than  that.  She  spoke  to 
me,  an'  speired  a  lot  aboot  the  wy  Rob  took  on  when 
little  Davy  was  fund  deid.  He  was  fond  o'  his 
fowk,  Rob,  michty  fond." 

"  What  was  your  opeenion  o'  her  then,  Tammas?" 

"  Weel,  Silva,  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  oncommon 
favorably  impreesed.  She  shook  hands  wi'  me,  man, 
an'  she  had  sic  a  saft  voice  an'  sic  a  bonny  face  I 
was  a  kind  o'  carried  awa;  yes,  I  was  so." 

"  Ay,  ye  say  that,  Tammas.  Weel,  I  think  I'll  be 
movin'.  They'll  be  keen  to  hear  aboot  this  in  the 
square." 

"  I  said  to  her,"  continued  Tammas,  peering  through 
his  half -closed  eyes  at  Silva,  "  'at  Rob  was  a  lucky 
crittur  to  get  sic  a  bonny  wife." 

"Ye  did!"  cried  Silva.  "An'  hoo  did  she  tak' 
that?" 

"Ou,"said  Tammas   complacently,  "she  took  it 

wee!." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Silva,  now  a  dozen  yards  away, 
"  'at  Rob  never  sent  ony  o'  the  papers  he  writes  to 
Thrums  juist  to  lat's  see  them." 

"  He  sent  a  heap,"  said  Tammas,  "to  the  minister, 
meanin'  them  to  be  passed  roond,  but  Mr.  Dishart 
didna  juist  think  they  were  quite  the  thing,  ye  un'er- 
stan',  so  he  keeps  them  lockit  up  in  a  press." 

"  They  say  in  the  toon,"  said  Silva,  "  'at  Rob  would 


302  WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

never  hae  got  on  sae  weel  if  Mr.  Dishart  hadna  helpit 
him.  Do  you  think  ther's  onything  in  that?" 

Tammas  was  sunk  in  revery,  and  Silva  at  last  de- 
parted. He  was  out  of  sight  by  the  time  the  stone- 
breaker  came  to. 

"I  spoke  to  the  minister  aboot  it,"  Tammas 
answered,  under  the  impression  that  Silva  was  still 
there,  "an'  speired  at  him  if  he  had  sent  a  line  aboot 
Rob  to  the  London  yeditors,  but  he  wudna  say." 

Tammas  moved  his  head  round,  and  saw  that  he 
was  alone. 

"No,"  he  continued  thoughtfully,  addressing  the 
tombstones,  "  he  would  neither  say  'at  he  did  nor  'at 
he  didna.  He  juist  waved  his  han'  like,  to  lat's  see 
'at  he  was  at  the  bottom  o't,  but  didna  want  it  to  be 
spoken  o'.  Ay,  ay." 

Tammas  hobbled  thoughtfully  down  one  of  the 
steep  burying-ground  walks,  until  he  came  to  a  piece 
of  sward  with  no  tombstone  at  its  head. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  "  there's mony  an  Angus  lies  buried 
there,  an'  Rob's  the  only  ane  left  noo.  I  hae  helpit 
to  hap  the  earth  ower  five,  ay,  sax  o'  them.  It's  no 
to  "be  expeckit,  no,  i'  the  course  o'  natur'  it's  no  to 
be  expeckit,  'at  I  should  last  oot  the  seventh :  no, 
but  there's  nae  sayin'.  Ay,  Rob,  ye  wasna  sae  fu' 
o'  speerits  as  I'll  waurant  ye  are  the  noo,  that  day  ye 
buried  Davy.  Losh,  losh,  it's  a  queer  warld." 

"It's  a  pretty  spot  to  be  buried  in,"  he  muttered, 


THE  VERDICT   OF   THRUMS.  303 

after  a  time ;  and  then  his  eyes  wandered  to  another 
part  of  the  burying-ground. 

"  Ay,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle,  "  but  I've  a  snod  bit 
cornery  up  there  for  mysel'.    Ou  ay," 


THE  END. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIl 


A    000018285    7 


